


The Way Is Dark, And Full Of Dangers

by LostMyMarbles



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A/B/O, AU as Hell, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Faerie Courts, Faerie godmother, Faeries - Freeform, M/M, Magic, Shapeshifters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-27
Updated: 2019-03-31
Packaged: 2019-12-25 06:16:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 28,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18255443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LostMyMarbles/pseuds/LostMyMarbles
Summary: Greg finds a Shifted lynx in his rounds, and takes him to his friend Mike.  Said Shifted Lynx is in the motherly way...and didn't get there willingly.Ten years later, Greg, now a D.I., meets Mycroft Holmes after the events of A Study in Pink.Even more intrigued than he was before, Greg's not getting any younger, and he'd love to know the Omega better...but Prince Seamus Moriarty of the Derry Court has run away from home, and is beginning to play his nasty games again.  Can Greg keep Mycroft and Sherlock safe?  Can Mycroft keep from losing his heart?  More, will Greg stay once he learns Mycroft's secret greatest worry?





	1. Prologue part 1

**Author's Note:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of rape in this chapter. Thank you.

He trotted through the night, careless, too careless, really; if the trail hadn't been hot as hell and bright as rainbows to his nose, he'd likely have missed the signs. But the scent of an Omega, more, the scent of a pregnant, distressed Omega, ran right up his nostrils and settled into the base of his brain, screaming out warnings bright as the orange chiron that runs across the bottom of the telly, all caps, PREGNANT OMEGA DISTRESSED OMEGA PREGNANT OMEGA DISTRESSED OMEGA, in circles that tripped him up into full panic mode. Immediately, he began following the trail, not that it was that hard, not at all, poor dear, Hekate and Hermes but the poor thing was upset...the trail was easy enough for him to see if he'd been in two feet rather than four, even in the dark, the grass and bush torn apart by the poor thing's frantic flight.

The trail stopped at a gorsebush, and he whined a moment outside of it before coming to his senses and Shifting back into his human form. He cleared his throat, and began to speak softly. "Hallo, there, love," he murmured softly, careful to keep comfort/care/protection foremost in his voice and the forefront of his mind. "You all right?" He waited a few seconds before speaking again. "I know you're upset, love, and I've no idea why; I'm an Alpha, but I'm not whoever's hurt you. But listen. I'm a Sheriff, I'm here to help you, truly I am. Take you someplace safe, whether that's your home or someone else's, if your Alpha's abusive or whatnot." A low whining growl answered him then, and he squatted down in front of the hole that led to the back of the gorsebush. "I promise," he said softly. "If someone's hurt you, well, it's my job to put him right behind cold iron, innit? Make sure they can't hurt you n'more. But I can't do that if you don't come out and tell me what's wrong, love."

Slowly, rustling sounds moved toward him. Whining, more rustling, before a lovely spotted lynx appeared before him. He squatted down to look at the cat's gorgeous emerald eyes. "Hello. I'm Greg," he said softly. "I'm a Sheriff." He took out his badge, the enchanted gold glimmering in the night, as it wouldn't do if it weren't linked to his energy. "I'd like to take you to the station, make a report, and get you somewhere safe." The lynx shook its head almost frantically, and his mouth twisted as he frowned. "Love, I really should. I know you're afraid, I can't help if we don't get you somewhere safe where you can Shift and give us your particulars." The lynx made -- some sort of sound, its front paw rising up to the silver band around its neck, clawing at it, and he could see the deep, bloody gouges where it had obviously tried to get the collar off before. "Shit," Greg muttered, reaching out only to have his hand batted away by that same paw, hard, but without claws. "What's wrong? I'll have that off you in a --" but the lynx batted his hand away again, shaking its head and making that same weird growling meow. "Something's wrong with it?" Greg asked, and the lynx's head bobbed up and down. "Enchanted?" Confirmed again, and Greg swore. "Bloody fucking faeries, innit. You a faerie's Omega, then?" That would make things infinitely more complicated, if it was. The faeries had different laws and regulations when it came to their Omegas. The cat hissed at that, though, its hackles rising, and Greg felt his stomach drop. "Faerie tried to make you theirs, eh? Here's the question, though, are you bit? Because if you're bit, I don't know if I can do anything but maybe help you get to the Continent, and even that won't help much." But the lynx shook its head now, turning its back so Greg could see -- the collar covered the bump of the bond gland almost perfectly. There was scarring, yes, and there were obvious signs that whoever had had the lynx had tried to bite, but hadn't quite been able to get purchase. "Ah," Greg breathed. "How about that. Well." He tried to think. Who could help? Who would be willing to help? "Mike," he said after a second. "Come on, love. Let's get you to a doctor, make sure you're all right. He might know someone, get you in the Underground if we can."

He stood back up, took his radio from his pocket, checked his watch. "Lestrade to HQ."

"Go for HQ," Molly, the dispatcher, replied.

"Yeh, I'm done for tonight, headed in."

"Confirmed, Lestrade. System showing you offline for the next 48 hours. Have a good weekend."

"Thanks." He clicked his radio off, settled it back in his pocket before kneeling again and holding out his arms. "Come on, then. You look knackered." The lynx hesitated, but let him pick it up; he staggered as he rose, but only a bit, quickly regaining his footing before making his way back up the trail to the car park. He got the lynx in his back seat, settled on his overcoat, turned on the car, heater on full blast, before he called Mike.

"Stamford," the sleepy voice drawled in his ear, and he winced as he replied; he was well aware what bloody time it was, but...

"Mike. 'S Greg. I need a favor, mate."

"Mmm. 'S two in the morning."

"It is, aye, and I'm bloody sorry, but I really, really need your help." A long, drawn out sigh.

"What is it?"

"Look, easier for me to explain in person. Can I come to yours?"

"Yeh. Yeah, but you owe me, lad."

"Aye that. I'll owe you twice over, honor-bound, mate."

"You will. Come on, back door'll be open." The line clicked dead, and Greg breathed a sigh of relief before glancing up into the rearview. The lynx's ears were pricked up; they'd been listening, then. Good. 

"Mike's a doctor," he said as he put the car in gear, started to drive. "He's also faerie blooded; his great-grandmum was Laird McLean's bit of totty on the side for twenty years our time, and stayed on the right side of him the rest of her life; he may know someone that can help you, if he can't. Laird McLean's Court isn't so bad." The lynx nodded its head once, then laid it back down on its paws, and Greg turned his attention to the road, where it belonged. Thank fuck the Omega's scent had settled; it wasn't shouting "in distress" so loudly anymore, with any luck at all, they'd move too fast for any Alphas to get their trail. Or betas, for that matter. That would be all they bloody needed, Greg trying to explain this to some buck pumped up on adrenaline. But it was late, and rainy, and cold. Most wouldn't be out at this hour.

Mike's little cottage looked dark from the front, but round the back, Greg saw the kitchen light on, and as he parked, the back door opened, the burly Beta's body appearing in the way. "What's this, then?" Mike asked as he stepped the rest of the way out, mug in hand. 

"You'll see," Greg said as he opened the back door of the car and lifted the lynx. The scent must have hit Mike, though, because he swore behind him.

"Oh, bloody buggering hell, get it in, get it inside, crucified Christ," Mike said, a little louder, hurriedly getting out of the way and holding the door open for Greg.

"Ta," he said as he passed him. "Where?"

"Ah...kitchen table, I suppose." The kitchen was just to the left, and Greg was glad to see the only thing on the table was the centerpiece. Gently, he laid the lynx and his overcoat on it, shoving the fake flowers over a bit as Mike locked the back door, then scurried through the room to the front. "Good, I locked that one before I went to bed." He came back into the kitchen, wide eyed behind his glasses as he bent over the lynx. "Hello, love," he said softly. "My name's Mike, Mike Stamford, I'm a doctor. Mind if I have a look at you?" The lynx shook its head, and Mike nodded. "Gonna try something real quick, though, this works sometimes, don't feel bad if it doesn't. Gonna touch your head, if I may?" At the lynx's nod, Mike laid a meaty hand on the cat's head, right between its ears, closing his eyes. He stood there like that long enough that Greg was just about to shake him, thinking maybe he'd fallen asleep on his feet or summat, before his eyes opened again and he took a step backwards, shaking his head.

"Oh, this is a bad business," he said, looking at Lestrade. "This is bad, Greg."

"How bad? And what was that?"

"Sometimes," Mike said, turning round to the electric kettle and checking that it was full, then turning it on, "sometimes, I can do a bit of telepathy. Natural empath, thanks to Granny Lou, but telepathy's harder. This one must have the same sort of gift, because we just had a bloody dreadful convo."

"What happened?" Greg asked. He knew he sounded desperate, well, he was! A Sheriff was chosen for their own empathy, their own protective instinct, and his was ruddy screaming at him to help the poor Omega.

"Kidnapping," Mike began. "Forced Shift, forced heat, and rape." Greg couldn't help the growl that rose to his lips, couldn't help the fangs that showed as his lips curled back from his teeth, and Mike cuffed his arm. "Shut up. That's not the worst." Greg couldn't talk with a face full of fangs, so he cocked his head; what the hell could be worse? "It was the Irish Laird." 

Greg found himself on the floor, in his Shape, growling even harder; the bloody Irish Laird, that fecking bastard, bloody gobshite, fucker! "Nowt we can do for it but call this fellow's friend; he's apparently a high mucky-muck in the Government," he heard Mike say, and he barked sharp and fierce at that. Oh there was something they could do about it, he could go bite the bastard's bollocks off! "No, Greg. I know. I know you want to help, but there's nothing we can really do. Guessin' there's a bit of faerie in our friend here's blood, too, his friend can get him home, hopefully they'll be able to get that piece of shit off his neck." Mike got down on his knees in front of Greg's snout. "He wants to go home, Greg. Let's help him, yeah?"

Slowly, Greg nodded, forcing himself to calm down and Shift back into himself. "Yeah," he sighed. "You get a number?"

"Yeah. I'm gonna fix you both a nice cuppa, then I'm gonna make the call," Mike said.

 

The lynx lapped at the china bowl full of sweet hot tea daintily as Greg sat beside it, sipping a cup of his own. Mike did make a good cuppa, even if he used bloody PG Tips. They'd had more than one joking fight over which was better, Twinings or Tips, down the local. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and the lynx stopped moving. "I'm sorry I can't help you more." He looked down at his mug, shaking his head. "Can't touch the bastard," he sighed. "Fucking diplomatic immunity, plus he's full-blood Faerie, 's why we ain't usin' his name. Would call him." He looked up to see the lynx watching him, its head cocked to one side. "You didn't deserve this, all right? You're gonna have a nasty time, and it may get black as Cerberus' hide, but you remember that. You didn't deserve this. Doesn't matter what you were wearing, what you were doing, you're the victim here, love. Aye?" In answer, the lynx reached out its head to him, slowly, and licked the side of his hand, its tongue sandpaper rough, but still. "Good, I'm glad we're of a mind on that. I...I don't know. I wish I could go find the bastard and rip him up some, but..." he shook his head again. "I can just see the papers, right? Sheriff goes mad, attacks Irish Laird, war declared. Last thing anybody needs, I suppose." The lynx nodded at that, very seriously. "It ruffles me, though. I'm sure you're a sweetheart of an Omega, and now..." Greg bit the side of his cheek to keep from saying anything more. He knew the odds of this Omega ever accepting an Alpha for heat again. Poor thing would likely go on heat suppressors, might even get itself sterilized.

A cold wind rattled through the kitchen, a shrieking came from outside, shrieking that would wake the dead, to be honest, and the lynx's ears perked up; it leapt from the table, trotting to the back door and pawing at it, mewling furiously. "What -- that sounds like --" The wind died down, and a sharp knock came on the door. 

"Hello? Looking for a Doctor Stamford, please?" A woman's voice spoke, and the lynx screeched in response. "Open the door, in the name of the Crown, or else I will break it down," the woman declared.

"Whose Crown?" Greg challenged.

"In the name of Her Majesty, Elizabeth the Second," came the answer, and Greg opened the door. The woman on the other side was stunning, almost otherworldly in her beauty, her eyes shining silver in the night, and Greg realized then what she was; bean-sidhe, one of the Wailing Women, often used as bodyguards by the Royal Family and other very high governmental positions. The lynx called, and it sounded -- happy, he thought, as the woman crouched down, wrapping her arms around its neck. 

"Oh. Oh, sir," she said, a tinge of that mourning keen in her voice again. "Oh, sir, I thought we'd -- sir." The lynx seemed overjoyed to see her, hiding its face in her neck, its front paws on her shoulders in the semblance of a hug. "What did they do to you? That bastard --" she stopped speaking, looking down at the lynx for a few seconds, before nodding. "No. No, it takes more than a bloody tiger to end me, sir. Even if the bastard's somehow got iron claws. No, sir. No, I'm fine. I promise you." Another silent exchange, and she looked up at Greg. "Sheriff?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Has the doctor looked my employer over?"

"No, he -- they talked, the telepathy thing, there, and then Mike called you," Greg said. "Do you have a car?"

"No, but one will be here shortly. I couldn't wait," she said, blinking, and the silver sheen to her eyes slid away. She looked fully human now, still beautiful, still elegant, but human. "You've no idea what you've done, Sheriff. You or Dr. Stamford, either one. The Crown, the Government, thanks you most sincerely."

"All in a day's work," Greg mumbled. 

"Yes, well. Since it will be a bit before the car catches up, I suggest we go inside, sir, it is rather cold outside tonight, especially for one in your condition," she said to the lynx. "Perhaps you'll allow the doctor to look you over now that I'm here." The lynx hissed at her, and she narrowed her eyes at it. "Yes, I'm well aware of your thoughts on the matter. However, we must ensure that you're healthy enough for the procedure." Greg swallowed, stepped out of the way to let the woman inside. Mike was in the kitchen, and the woman swept him away into the living room, speaking very, very lowly. The lynx remained next to Greg, its tail twitching back and forth.

"Right," Mike said as he came back in, glancing between the lynx and the woman beside him. "I'll have to ask you to step into the bedroom, sir, it's right this way." The lynx growled, and the woman snarled.

"You will," she hissed back at it. "Go allow the doctor to ensure that that bastard hasn't done anything that can't be undone. I can have everything else arranged within the hour, but we must make sure you're fit enough to survive it. You didn't escape that monster's clutches just to die on the operating table. I won't allow it." It hissed at her again, but slowly moved toward Mike, following him down the hall, and the door closed behind the pair of them before she turned to Greg. "Sheriff. Again, you have my complete gratitude."

"S nothing. Listen, I get that he -- it is a he?" At her nod, Greg went on. "I get that he wants an abortion, take his life back, great, but do make sure he gets a therapist. I don't know everything he's been through, but I know it's bad. He'll need it."

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Oh, yes. I promise you that. Likely my sister, in fact. I am Anthea," she held out her hand, and Greg shook it, making sure not to wince from the cold of her hands; the Wailing Women always had cold hands. "And you are a very good man, Sheriff. You and the doctor both."

"I'm only what I am," Greg shrugged. "Got lucky, to be honest; scented him out in the park, somehow talked him round into letting me bring him here. Just glad Mike's got that touch of the Blood in him, else we'd still be buggered trying to figure out what to do. That collar --" her eyes flashed silver again.

"Will be removed as soon as he is safely behind his own walls, and our protections," she assured Greg. "We know what it is; twisted in its use, but not a horrid thing, in and of itself. With any luck, we'll be able to trace it back to...the perpetrator, and ensure his departure from Britain." Bloody hell. Bastard must be even more powerful than he'd thought, if one of the Wailing Women wouldn't say his name. "We will take very good care of our employer, now that he's returned to us." She blinked, and a glittering tear escaped her eye, sliding down her left cheek. "We knew he lived," she said, shaking her head. "We knew he lived, but nothing more, and we had the best, the very best, of scryers and seekers looking for him."

"If he was in Shape, and they were looking for the man, that might explain it," Greg offered, and she nodded, slowly.

"That might. Or the monster's sorcery is more powerful than ours. A possibility we must take into consideration. He will, anyway." She sighed, and Greg tried to think of what to do next.

"Tea?" He offered, for lack of anything else, and she smiled.

"I would be delighted, thank you." 

 

He was surprised when, before they left, the lynx stopped and pawed at his knee. He knelt down to look him in the eye. "I'm glad I was able to help a little," Greg said, holding his hand out. "Maybe one day I'll be able to meet you proper, huh?" The lynx deigned to run its head briefly under his hand, the fur soft and silky. "Take care, now. And remember what I said." The lynx nodded decisively, once, before ambling over to Anthea by the door.

"I don't think I have to tell you gentlemen more than once, this never happened," Anthea said firmly. "For your own sakes, as well as the Crown. The Irish Laird would not be pleased to find that anyone had helped my employer."

"Doctor patient confidentiality," Mike said, and Greg nodded.

"I didn't even call it in to begin with; would be far too much paperwork now," he said as he stood back up. "Take care, Lady." And make the bastard pay, he thought, thought hard. She nodded, the silver sheen dropping over her eyes again.

"Oh, I shall, Sheriff." She winked at him, and opened the door. They were gone a moment afterward, the sleek black car disappearing down the street. Greg let out a breath he didn't know he was holding before he turned to Mike.

"Shit. Glad that's over."

"Me, too." Mike's shoulders sagged with relief. "That was...gods, Greg. Bad."

"I got that idea. Stand you brekky? Start payin' my debt?"

"That'll do; and you can stand a couple rounds down the local tomorrow, and I'll call us even. Let me get dressed proper."


	2. Prologue part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a difficult conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: mentions of rape

In the gloaming between darkness and dawn, in the back garden of a posh townhouse, but nothing too extravagant, three women converged on the lynx, each laying a hand on the silver collar round its neck. Wild words whirled on the wind, and the collar unfastened, plucked from the lynx's neck and placed carefully in a white silk sack. A moment later, a naked, wiry, ginger Omega male knelt before the sisters, his eyes closing in relief as they converged on him. "My Wyrd ones," he croaked, his voice barely legible. "My beautiful Wyrd Sisters."

"Sir," Iona said softly, stroking his cheek with her hand. "I'm so sorry. We're so sorry."

"It...will pass, Iona. It will pass." He tried to stand properly, wobbled on the way up, was caught by strong, pale hands. "Aneira."

"Sire?"

"Go. Tell my godmother I must speak with her. Agatha, I cannot have -- I cannot -- until I've spoken with Godmother," he said, and his usual bodyguard nodded curtly.

"All of the arrangements are made for afterwards, sir. Come inside. Have a bath, something to eat, please," she implored him, and he followed her and Iona into the house.

 

He bathed, under Agatha/Anthea's watchful eye; the water was hot, the soap fragrant, his good cedar scent that he'd missed so much in the blasted kennel. Iona made him soup and toast and tea, Assam, thank you, much better than PG Tips -- but that had been a kindness, and what the man had had to hand, he would not be surly over courtesy given freely. "What shall we do for my saviors, ladies?" He asked, and watched Agatha and Iona share a glance.

"The lottery, perhaps?" Iona offered.

"An annuity from an unknown uncle?" Agatha asked.

"Hmm. Either would be good." The Sheriff, his scent still lingered in his nose. He needed to...to let that go, to put it away before Godmother arrived; she would pounce on that, if she saw it in his mind, and he had enough to answer for as it was. 

 

The coach was silver, drawn by a dozen cats the size of ponies, a cluricaun driver and footman. Queen Leanan of the Sherrinford Court stepped out of it and was gravely invited in, offered refreshment, led to her godson...and at the first view of him, screamed angrily, "Who?"

"Moriarty," Mycroft replied, standing from his chair. "Seamus Moriarty, Prince of the Derry Court."

"Oh precious child," she muttered, long white hair flowing behind her, a lovely contrast to her deep blue pantsuit as she approached him, laying one white hand on his cheek. "Precious, precious child."

"I could not -- forgive me --" he began, but she hushed him with a single slender finger over his lips.

"Your aura screams rape," she murmured. "Your lynx still bleeds, your heart the same, my precious. These..." she sighed. "Had the wretch bed you properly, these would be kits of tremendous talent. As it is, none of them, not one, will live to see the sunrise after their birth. You wish to be rid of them."

"I would not cheat you, Godmother," he said softly, and she hissed.

"You have not. He has robbed me. I know the difference, godson, and I will have my own on him, have no doubt of that." Wild sea-green eyes met cool blue ones. "Did he know?"

"He did," Mycroft agreed. "He boasted of it. Thought he was ruining me. Thought you would have vengeance on me."

"He has no heart nor affection," she muttered. "For anyone. And he let his mortal pet wound you, too, I smell tiger."

"Colonel Moran...was..." he swallowed. "Was, in some respects, gentler. Than the prince."

"Gentler," she scoffed. "That would not have taken much. Well. I hold the vow taken from your ancestor in abeyance for this litter; you are not the first, Mycroft, nor, I am sad to say, shall you be the last, to have suffered so. Your next litter, should you be graced again, I shall have my pick of."

"How is...how is Eurus, Godmother?"

"She is well. Affianced to a courtier at the moment; who knows how long that shall last." She graced him with a small smile. "Likely as long as the last, which is to say, perhaps a fortnight, perhaps two. I'll not tell her, before you ask, only that you had need of my counsel. Which is this; rid yourself of these monsters, as soon as you may. His magic is all over them, and it reeks." She waved a hand toward his protruding belly. "There. Now you'll not suffer for their loss; a nice little twee hex if you'd managed to make yourself miscarry. Well thought, but he is but a prince, and I a Queen."

"Thank you, Godmother." His voice wavered; he couldn't keep it together much longer, and he knew it, and it seemed she saw it, too. 

"Precious child. I do not blame you, dear Mycroft. I blame the man who dared lay hands on my godson. And he will pay. His father will call him back to Eire before the day is out, I will see to it, my dear." Her pert nose wrinkled up. "And I may, I may decide my price for your children will be his precious little pet. I think I need a living tiger rug for the receiving hall." She leaned up and kissed his cheek. "Have your scions take you to the healers as soon as may be." She turned, took two steps to the door, stopped and snapped her fingers before turning round again. "The mind healers, as well," she said softly. "I do not advise you this lightly."

"Yes, Godmother." She nodded, snapped her fingers again, and left as abruptly as she had come in, her driver only tapping the reins before the cats ran away with it, disappearing halfway up the street. He watched it from the window, letting out a sigh of relief when she was gone. His Godmother was amazing, and he appreciated her generosity...but still yet, dealing with Faeries of any sort was always tricky, and Faerie royalty even more so.

"Sir?" Agatha said softly from the door. "The doctors are ready whenever you are."

"Well," he said. "Let's not keep them waiting, Agatha."

"I concur, sir. I've taken the liberty of packing your bag and putting it in the car, and I've informed your parents that you'll be out of the country a few days more. Sherlock is currently in Venice, by the way."

"Thank you."


	3. A Study in Pink: The aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As it says on the tin

TEN YEARS LATER

 

"I'm in shock, look, I've a blanket," Sherlock said, clutching the gaudy orange fabric around him, and Greg sighed.

"You're a bloody nuisance," he muttered as a black car pulled up, a tall ginger posh bloke getting out and walking right past the crime scene tape, right past everything and everyone, up to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes. How dare you?"

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock drawled as the hedgehog man -- John, that was his name -- looked on, gaping. "I had everything under control, Mycroft." The wind shifted directions just then, coming from their direction toward Greg just for a moment, as a vaguely familiar voice spoke beside him.

"Sheriff?" He turned his head to see a beautiful, elegant woman approaching from the direction of the car. She looked familiar, niggling at the edge of his memory, and as the scent hit his nose, it all came together.

"I -- I hate to admit I've forgotten your name, but yes, hello," he said, extending his hand for the Wailing Woman.

"Anthea today. Sometimes I'm someone else," she smiled as she took it, the chill of her flesh bringing goosebumps to Greg's skin. "How have you been?"

"Good," he said, glancing between her and the gentleman currently berating Sherlock. "That's --" he didn't go on, but she must have caught his drift, giving him a quick, sharp nod.

"Brothers," she said helpfully.

"Oh, God." 

"No, nor are they related to any," she replied, and he had to chuckle. "Though he wields power like one."

"I'd guess," Greg nodded. "Everything work out, then?"

"I...really can't talk about it here," she said, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Meet me at your local your next day off?"

"Sure," he nodded. "Mike'll be glad to know he's all right, too. We've spoke about it amongst ourselves a time or two. Worried."

"I'm sorry for that, and he will be, too," she said, leaning in closer still. "He's not made of ice. He just pretends to be. He thinks it's easier that way." She paused. "It's just, he has so much to worry over, Sheriff."

"D.I. now," he said, not a little proudly. "Went back to uni, got the degree in criminal justice and everything."

"Good on you," she said, smiling, and he thought she might even mean it; it was hard to tell sometimes with faeries. "That's not easy."

"No. No, it wasn't, and I bitched a lot at Mike while I was going through it," he sighed. "But I wanted it. I wanted it a great deal."

"You would; I told you then that you had a good heart. A warrior's heart, a guardian's heart," she said fondly. "And I'm glad to see it, because I'm afraid things are only going to get worse before they get better."

"Oh?"

"The Irish Laird went missing from his father's court three years ago," she whispered. "No one in the Courts has heard from him since. His pet is still under lock and key, but he's dangerous enough without him."

"Bloody buggering --" he bit off the rest of his curses as the posh gent cut away from Sherlock and the hedgehog, stalking back toward the car, jerking his head at Andrea. "My local, 7 Thursday," he said quickly as she began to walk away. Her hand slid around her back, giving him a thumbs up, as she hurried to the car. For one brief moment, the ginger gent's eyes landed on him; pale blue, giving him a once over, head to toe and back up again. Greg gave the man a saucy grin as he finished, the look of indignation he got in return was priceless before the man slid into the black car's backseat.

"Right," he said, turning his attention back to the case at hand. "Donovan, I want..."

 

He dragged himself up the steps to his flat just before sunrise, tugging at his tie with one hand, keys in the other, dropping the same in the bowl on the end table beside the door without missing a beat. He locked the door, frowned, then licked his finger, drawing a rune of protection on it; if Anthea were right, he might have to step up his personal security for a bit. Bastard who'd lock a man in his Shape, worse, who'd rape a man in his Shape, worse still, rape an Omega in his Shape...well. His pissant rune might not do much, but it might hold him back for a precious second or two.

A dry chuckle made him whirl, his hand going for the taser he personally carried, only to be met with those same pale ice eyes on his old, but comfy, couch. "So you do have some measure of self-preservation." The corner of the man's mouth lifted, just a touch, in what Greg thought was amusement. "I'm very glad to see it, Detective Inspector."

"Oh, aye, just a bit," he said, grinning. "Make yourself at home, don't mind the mess, it's the maid's year off." He passed right by the fella, headed for the kitchen and the London's Pride waiting for him in the fridge door. "Fancy a drink?"

"It is a bit early for imbibing, for me," came the answer, and he snorted as he popped the top off the bottle, came back to the living room to sit down in the lumpy, but somehow still comfortable, chair. 

"I'd say the same if I hadn't just come from a crime scene," Greg said, raising the bottle. "Think you've got me at a disadvantage, though, and my humble abode doesn't strike me as someplace you'd usually be caught dead."

"It seems...serviceable," the ginger said, trying and failing to keep his nose from rising. "Not as if you're here very often anyway."

"Nope. 'm not." He took a swallow, drew another rune on his beer bottle in the condensation with his thumb, this one protection from illusion. Nothing flickered, nothing changed, so it seemed on the up and up. It made the ginger draw back, though, one eyebrow rising perfectly like Spock from the old Star Trek. 

"Not bad," his guest said. "A good thought, though a bit ham-fisted."

"Never was one for a deft touch wi' magic. Not enough talent for it," he shrugged, and sat up, leaning forward. "What can I do for you? Because honest, right now I'm for bed."

"You work with Sherlock Holmes upon occasion."

"I do, when he can be arsed to come help," Greg agreed. "Wish he'd get his head together enough to be a professional, though."

"So say we, so say we all," the ginger sighed. "I would inform you, Detective Inspector, that his well being is paramount to certain interests. Most specifically, to the Queen of Sherrinford Court, whose name I shall not speak out of reverence."

"Gor. He's got a faerie godmother," Greg sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "Of bloody course he does."

"Quite. And our godmother, as of this moment, is rather put out at his antics." Now a bit of a satisfied grin was crossing his face. "You got me. He and his new pet are even now being taken for an audience with her."

"Oh, he's not gonna like that," Greg snickered. "Oh, he's not gonna like that at all, and that thing what Watson's got hangin' round him's gonna like it even less."

"The djinni? Yes. I agree." The man's gaze gained some measure of respect as he looked at Greg. "I wasn't aware you'd noticed it."

"Oh, I noticed," Greg grumbled, taking another swallow. "That's what's making his leg act up. It likes the action, likes warriors, likes blood and death and danger. I dunno why nobody else saw it, banished it off him, before he was mustered out."

"That makes two of us," the ginger grumbled with him. "It doesn't seem completely malevolent, however, so I'm of a mind to leave it alone for now. One never knows when a bit of assistance can be helpful, and it's entwined itself enough into Watson's energy to know that keeping him alive and well is imperative for its own survival."

"And enough to make it hard to get the monkey off the bugger," Greg nodded. "Well. Glad Sherlock's gonna get his arse reamed by someone what's got the power to make him pay attention. Wanker." His guest cleared his throat, and Greg rolled his eyes. "Oh, he's your brother, aye, and I respect that, but Mr. Holmes, you've got to admit what he did was bloody dangerous."

"It was," his guest agreed softly. "And it would have broken several hearts, had Watson not interfered." Greg's shoulders sagged as he downed the last of his beer.

"I thought so," he muttered. "I bloody thought so."

"You thought right. Scented the gunpowder residue, I take it?"

"Between that and the adrenaline rush," Greg agreed. "Caught a touch of triumph, good hunt, from his mind, too; what's his Shape?"

"Boar," Mr. Holmes said, his mouth twisting. "And Sherlock is --"

"A white raven, I've seen," Greg nodded. "Got in a hurry once when he was still on the juice, broke his wing, I had to make him go to the A&E." He ran his thumb over the mouth of the now empty bottle.

"And I believe you know mine, as well," Mr. Holmes replied softly.

"Believe I do," Greg agreed. "I've not said anything."

"I know." He seemed nervous, of a sudden; it was interesting. "Well. I would ask, as a personal favor, Detective, if you would be so kind as to go on allowing Sherlock access to these little puzzles. It...helps him so."

"It does," Greg agreed. "He'd have made a hell of a D.I., if he'd wanted to go through the proper channels. But he does just as much good in the private sector, I suppose. I don't suppose you could lean on him to be a bit more professional?"

"He doesn't take well to such suggestions," Mr. Holmes sighed. "Unfortunately."

"Well, if he doesn't start, I'm going to have to begin denying his access," Greg warned. "He can't go on being nasty to my team, Mr. Holmes. It's not good for us, and it only feeds his monstrous ego."

"I understand. Do that if you feel you must. Consider yourself warned as to the importance of Sherlock's well-being, please; I have another appointment I must go to." He sighed, and rose, and Greg rose with him.

"Fancy a drink sometime?" Greg offered. "Without the breaking and entering?"

"Very kind, Detective Inspector, but my schedule is rather full, and rather apt to change at short notice," Mr. Holmes said, but his eyes, for the first time, seemed evasive.

"I'm not a pushy fella," Greg said, staying well clear of the path to the door. leaving the Omega an exit. "Just a bit partial to well-dressed gingers. Barnaby and Sons, yeh?" Shock crossed Mr. Holmes' face.

"Y-yes," he said,one hand unconcisously smoothing his suit jacket. "Yes, indeed. I didn't know you knew them."

"I've one suit from them," Greg said, grinning just a bit. "One. And I saved for two years for it. Good clothes that fit a man well..." he let his grin grow wider, and was pleased as punch to see Mr. Holmes blush, the red creeping up the pale column of his neck. "Thought perhaps I could get it out sometime."

"I...have a very full schedule at the moment, but...perhaps something could be arranged," Mr. Holmes said, disbelief easily read on his face. "I'll have Anthea contact you."

"Or you could call me."

"Or...I..."

"If you know where I live, can get in easy as you did, I assume you've got m'mobile."

"I...might have access to that information."

"Call me, then. Anytime; if I don't answer, I'm likely working, or in court, or asleep. But I'll return the call soon's I can." He kept his tone light, kept his place, his stance non-threatening. 

"I..I'll keep it in mind."

"And what was your name again? Not fair for you to know mine, and not the other way round," Greg tried.

"Mycroft," he replied before taking a single step forward, hand extended properly. "Mycroft Holmes, at your service."

"Well. Gregory Lestrade, at your service and your family's," Greg replied with a half-bow, drawing the ghost of a smile from the man.

"Shall we plan a burglary, then?"

"Oh, let's. After second breakfast," Greg quipped, and that smile grew flesh, even as Mycroft's mobile chirped.

"I must go," the ginger said, and now he looked almost reluctant. "Good day, Detective Inspector."

"Greg."

"...Gregoire," Mycroft acquiesced, a bit. drawing his hand from Greg's grasp, and slipped from the room, moving as gracefully as the cat that was his Shape. Greg stayed where he was, felt it as Mycroft must have drawn another, more potent, protection rune on the outside of his door. Well. That went well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha/Anthea has thoughts.  
> So does Donovan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of an author's note here: you will see, from here on out, some variations and deviations from the actual series.  
> It is, after all, an AU.

Agatha kept her thoughts and her opinions to herself, concentrating on her mobile, as Mr. Holmes got into the Jaguar, his usually unruffled expression off by just a hair. Most wouldn't notice it, but Agatha had been Mycroft's constant, or almost constant, companion for twenty years, since the beginning of his career. She admitted to her affinity for him; she was more fond of him than she had been of his Uncle Rudolf, much more. "And how was the Detective Inspector?" She asked as the car made its way through the London streets.

"Tired," Mycroft replied with a little sigh. "As am I; why can't Sherlock solve cases and whatnot at a decent hour of the day?"

"Need a boost?" She asked, offering her hand, and he shook his head, giving her a tiny smile.

"No. Not yet, though I will likely take you up on that this afternoon before the meeting with the Russian ambassador." He frowned more deeply than he had smiled. "I...I think he was flirting with me."

"Really?" Agatha said, when what she wanted to say was, of course he was, you're a catch. "Do tell."

"I believe he was." Mycroft sat up a little straighter, and she wondered, idly, what he would do if he could see the wonder in his own eyes. "He invited me for drinks. Told me to call him. Complimented my suit."

"The way he dresses, and he recognizes Barnaby?" She couldn't keep the surprise out of her own voice.

"He did," Mycroft nodded. "He even said he has a Barnaby suit himself. Obviously, he doesn't wear it often, but then, where would he?"

"Where would he indeed," Agatha agreed. "What did you say?"

"About what?"

"About the invitation for a drink, darling."

"Oh. I told him I'd have you call him, and that was when he asked if I would...he was flirting with me!" The shock in his voice was delicious, it really was, whenever Mycroft allowed himself to think of himself as something more than the Iceman; Agatha adored it, truly.

"Of course he was," she allowed herself. "You're a catch, you know."

"I -- what do I do?" Oh, little darling, she thought to herself.

"First, we go to work," she said softly. "And you text him this afternoon, and ask when would be a good time for that drink. Your brother is safely at Sherrinford Court; he and his new playmate will be kept safely for the next few days, you know how your godmother is whenever she can get Sherlock to pay attention to her."

"He's pleased as punch that he beat the killer," Mycroft sighed, leaning back against the car seat. "Godmother will preen over him, he'll play his violin for her, he'll show off Sherrinford Court for Watson." He bit his lip. "Godmother may even allow him to see Eurus this time. He's been begging for it for years."

"I know. But it isn't healthy for her," Agatha said softly. "It makes her miss her own home. Makes the magic...weaker."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "I know."

"It isn't a bad bargain, Mycroft. Aunt Leanan doesn't hurt your family."

"No. No, she keeps us. As pets." He blew out a breath. "Her choice of every generation, and she always chooses the best."

"No," Agatha contradicted him. "The best fit for her court at the time. And you are not the only family."

"No. We are not." He closed his eyes and leaned back fully against the leather, all emotion draining from his face, and Agatha let it go. They were getting close to Whitehall, and the Iceman had to reappear. When his eyes opened once more, they were not as they had been, dark with emotion and full of wonder. No. Pale ice blue, his face devoid of any emotion, observation and deduction, logic and reason above all else. And Agatha underwent her own transformation, though less obvious. Bean-sidhe she was, bean-sidhe she would always be, no matter how much she did adore this little Holmes of all her charges she had watched over, since the first Elizabeth's time. Cool, calm, collected, mobile to hand, quick glances of dark eyes to ensure there were no threats, no, not even one, to the man who was, for all purposes, The British Government.

She stayed at his heels right into their offices, though he went on into the larger, dark paneled room, and she stayed out in the anteoffice to take his messages and act as the guard dog. Iona and Aneira preferred to do their work at the townhouse; they would clean it, top to bottom, work their charms and weave their spells of comfort and safety and protection. Then they would move on to the cars, each one renewed each day, the work of the two of them together more powerful than hers alone. The heavy blackthorn door closed behind Mycroft, and she drew her mobile close to hand. "We might need to move up our timeline," she texted Aneira. "Lestrade flirted with him this morning."

"Oh, good," Aneira texted back a few minutes later. "I admit to hoping for it. Lovely kits those two would make."

"Delightfully so. And it has been so very long since we've had kits to look after."

"Since Siger's time," added Aneira. "Rudolf had no children."

"Indeed."

Three they were, and three they remained; the great number, the magical number, three the sacred, three the circle. She loved her sisters, loved them dearly, but she loved Mycroft fiercely, a passionate mother, willing to rip apart anything that threatened her cub. Her sisters were fond; they would all grieve when Mycroft passed. She knew, though. She knew that she would be the only one wailing at the ford above Sherrinford Court. Mycroft was hers, and she would protect him with every fiber of her being...and when it was over, she would let him go with mourning that befit the heart-son of a bean-sidhe.

 

Greg sat at his desk, rolled his head around his neck for a second. He'd just finished the damn paperwork for the night before, and he was well bloody knackered all over again, even after the four hour nap he'd taken that morning. Donovan rapped on his doorjamb, and he nodded, waving her in. She closed the door behind her and lowered the blinds, and he sighed; whatever this was was gonna be bad, then. "Sir. I've got to ask," she began, standing damn near at parade rest in front of his desk. "Are we going to be working with Holmes again?"

"We are," he said, holding up a hand as Donovan opened her mouth. "Wait. I've already had a chat with some other people, and we've all come to the same conclusion. He has to treat everyone with at least a modicum of professionalism. When he gets back, when he starts sniffing around, I'll have a talk with him about it. If he doesn't start acting like a human being, then I'll deny him access, and so will every other D.I. in NSY." Donovan's smile was hard for her to hide, and he frowned at her. "Now, that being said, if he does learn the lesson, Donovan, that's got to go two ways. No more of the freak business."

"Yes, sir. If he'll treat me and the rest of the team properly, then we will treat him with...with as much professional courtesy as we can."

"You'd best," Greg said seriously. "In fact, you'd best anyway. I have it on very good authority that you've been insulting someone rather high in the eyes of one of the Courts."

"How the hell did he get --" Donovan began, then snapped her mouth shut. "Posh family, innit?"

"Fairly sure, yeh. And you know how that goes, the old families have ties to, you know, the Good People, and you don't want to piss them off, Donovan. You know you don't," Greg tried pleading a bit. "I know I damn well don't."

"Yeah. Yeah, I just...he sees so much, he sees too much, Greg, there's no way he's doing that without some form of magic or another," she said, shaking her head. "I can't see how he does it, how he's right every single time."

"Off by something," Greg pointed out. "He's really good, but there's always something he gets wrong. Something he misses. Anyway, yeah, I'm gonna have a talk with him and his new friend -- what was his name?"

"John. John Watson," Sally offered.

"Yeah, I knew his last name, just forgot his first. Yeah, I'll talk to him and John when they get back."

"They left town?"

"A summons," Greg said softly, leaning forward, and that made Sally shiver.

"He piss someone off?" Greg shrugged, letting Sally draw her own conclusions. "Hell."

"Can't say. I just know he was summoned, and so was Watson. They'll be gone a few days, maybe a week."

"Hallelujah," Donovan muttered, then shook her head. "Sorry. Sorry, guv."

"Yeah. Get over that while he's gone, okay? And like I said, I'll tell him when they get back, whenever he starts up trying to catch a case, he's got to treat you right. Now. I'm gonna ask you, Sally. Mates we are, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sally agreed. 

"What's this with you and Anderson?"

"I..." Sally frowned, taking a seat at last, and Greg prayed a silent Hallelujah of his own as she did. "He's...I don't know." She shrugged, frowning harder. "I don't know."

"Look, sweetling. Listen to me. There's nothing there for you. Not -- not for long, love. Not for lasting. You follow?"

"I follow," Sally sighed. "I just -- he's so pathetic sometimes. Like a puppy."

"He can be, yeah. But you aren't the woman to turn him 'round, love. You're not." Greg got up from his desk, coming round with a handful of tissues to take the other seat in front of his desk, leaning forward and taking Sally's hand. "He's got to get his own backbone, love. Got to get his own life straight. You're wonderful, Sals, and I think you'll be somebody's hella kick-arse wife someday. But not Tad's."

"Right. Yeah," Sally said, nodding even though her eyes were filling with tears. "He's -- you're not telling me anything my sis and mum haven't said."

"Right. I just...you're not...I'd hate to see you hurting over him. More, I'd hate to see you waste your time. I'm not saying he's not a good guy, he is. But like I said, and you agreed, he's got some growing up to do yet, love. And I'd hate to see you wasting your time waiting on that. You're young yet. Lots of men out there." He handed her a couple of tissues with his free hand, kept good hold on the one in his other. "He's a good fella. But not for you."

"No. No, you're right, guv. I know it." She dabbed at her cheeks, just under her eyes, crushed the tissues in her hands. "I do know it."

"Then get started on letting it go, yeah? Take a few days. I'm for a vacation in another month m'self. Better that you take a few days now, so when I'm gone, you can handle things." At her look of surprise, Greg chuckled. "You're my second, aren't you? Sure you are. Then you'll be the one taking the helm while I'm gone for two glorious weeks in the Caymans."

"Two weeks? In the middle of fall?"

"Damn near winter," he corrected her with a grin. "Can't wait."

"M jealous, I admit it," Sally laughed. "Okay then. I'll take what, three?"

"Five, gonna give you a full roundabout off shift, plus two for the weekend. You need time to let go." He held a finger up before she could rejoice too much. "Promise me, Sally. Promise me you'll end it, and then take his number out your mobile. You can call the office, and if he shows, he shows, but no more calling him direct."

"Yeah. Yeah, I promise." She nodded, reaffirming her words. "I promise."

"Good. Now get out of here, finish your paperwork, so you can go take care of business and then play a bit. Ice cream and sad songs and all that."

"A week at Mum's," Sally said as she stood, and Greg stood with her. "That'll do me good."

"There's a lass. Go on, now." He watched her go back to her desk, take out her mobile, and text. Probably Anderson. Probably going to take care of it at lunch. Good. He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and went back to his own desk, reaching for the next paper in his inbox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am in hopes to have another chapter up for you all tomorrow morning by the latest; I'm not quite halfway through the next one.  
> Tomorrow's my birthday, and that will be my birthday present to myself. And to you all. :D


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Texting, chatting, communication is a good thing

He wasn't sure what to say. He always knew what to say, and he wasn't sure what to say, and it irked him, it bothered him, bothered him so much that he had an extra whisky after supper, Aneira giving him the silent eye, but saying not a word. He kept his focus on the glass, the feeling of the crystal under his fingers, the taste of the whisky, the slow sweet heat as it went down his throat. He knew. He knew that...that back...that ten years ago. He knew he had taken...comfort. In the fact that the Sheriff had been a strong, virile Alpha. That he had projected a magnificent confidence, a wonderful aura of protectiveness. He knew that his lynx, lovely thing that it was, had taken quite a shine to that Sheriff. Perhaps...perhaps, even, in those hours of weakness, had imprinted upon him.   
Moriarty had done a real number on him. On both of them.

He had known that D.I. Lestrade had taken his brother under his wing. If anything, he'd approved of it. But he couldn't meddle directly. Sherlock would never have stood for it, so all he could do was make nasty little remarks from time to time regarding the matter of his little puzzles, which, thankfully, had served their purpose of directing Sherlock even more to using his talents to help people. A blessing, truly, for he could just see the devastation, did Sherlock join forces with Prince Moriarty. He still thought that was a possible outcome, if he wasn't very, very careful. But Doctor Watson's appearance might, just might, be enough to tip the scale. He was an interesting hedgehog of a man, and Mycroft fully intended to tease Sherlock into clutching the man ever closer. A good man, a brave man, a warrior healer with a djinni somehow locked into his soul. The djinni's grip was solid, though a cursory examination had told him that the doctor was in no danger, yet, of losing said soul. Not yet. He would have to have a chat with some of the sorcerers at the Diogenes, those who owed him favors.

He looked down at the mobile in his hand, took a breath. He would call -- no, he would text, much as he preferred to call. Text meant he could think about what to say. He did think the man had been flirting with him; he'd been dissecting their last few words to one another in the back of his mind all day, and Agatha had agreed, there had been flirting. He...was unaccustomed to such attention...but again, he felt safe with Lestrade. Gregoire. He knew, now, as he had not known ten years ago, that Lestrade's grandparents were from Lyon. That his mother's sister still lived there, and that his mother spoke with the slightest of accents, worn away by decades of British assimilation. Mother, Veronique, father, Paul. Paul had French lineage and family in the area, his own grandparents having been immigrants in the '30s, coming over just after Windsor had abdicated. 

His thumbs moved quickly over the mobile. "Good evening, Detective Inspector. I trust you are well?" He hit send before he could delete it, and the answer came a few minutes later.

"Hi. This the soul-eater, then?" He snorted at that before replying.

"I do not eat souls. I only make very careful bargains for them."

"Yeah, that's what all you gingers say. Doing all right, actually, still at work at the mo. How was your day, then?"

"It was fairly uneventful, and thankfully industrious. I admit to a bit of concern, as I do not care to rise as early as was necessary today. I prefer to have at least a full five hours of sleep."

"Five? Thought you were one of those workaholic blokes that only take three. Sleep's a waste of time."

"No; I leave the histrionics re: transport for Sherlock."

"Good. Yeah, I like to try for six myself, but I can get by on four without becoming too much of a bastard. Don't like going more than 36 w/out any, though. Not as young as I used to be."

"Nor I, so I completely understand. You had mentioned perhaps drinks sometime? When would be agreeable?"

"Ah. Thursday's taken, sorry, prior plans; Friday? But somewhere quiet. Again, not as young as I used to be, never been much for the club scene anyway. They charge too much for a drink." This reply was accompanied by a winking emoticon. Trying to express humor through text was often difficult, he admitted, but he himself did not care to use emoticons.

"I concur. Where would you suggest?"

"Adelaide's. Small bistro/wine bar off of Piccadilly. Not a lot of customers, usually, even on a Friday night. And they've a fantastic house brewery, great cider, very good mead. exquisite dark ale."

"Time?"

"7-ish works."

"7-ish it will be then. Until then, Detective Inspector."

"Greg."

"Gregoire."

"I'll take it. At least you're not calling me Graham or Grant or Geoff."

"You know he only does that to annoy you."

"Yeah, he likes to try to take the piss out of everyone. Is who he is, and that's a berk. Sorry not sorry." This last was accompanied by another emoticon, this one a colon with a capital P; he didn't recognize it, so he didn't respond. He did so hate to ask, but he rose from his chair to go find Agatha, anyway. She was well aware of the vocab. "Pardon, Iona," he said, stepping into the kitchen to find the eldest of the bean-sidhe laying out a game of solitaire at the table. "Do you know where Agatha is?"

"Not right off hand," she replied, the slightest trace of a brogue trailing through her voice. "Did you need something, love?"

"This," he said, showing her the emoticon. "I don't know what it means." He could feel the blush rising in his cheeks as Iona chuckled.

"That's a tongue sticking out. They're teasing you, or they don't exactly mean what they said."

"Ah. Of course. Thank you, Iona." He wandered back out of the well appointed kitchen, missing the fond smile that crossed the faerie's face as he texted back. "Until Friday," he repeated, sliding the phone into his pocket and going to the study. He perused his books very carefully, deciding at last upon the sonnets. The well worn leather binding was warm to his fingertips, and he found his chair, flipped on the light beside it, and settled in for an evening with the Bard, and the Bard's loves. 

He went to bed when the clock struck ten, slipping the book back into its place, going through the motions and rhythms of his routine without too many thoughts clouding his mind; poetry did that. It cleared his mind as very little else could. He really wished he could have more evenings like this one; quiet, home, a time to recharge, to remind himself exactly what it was that he worked so hard to protect. But duty called, of course. Britannia must survive, and if it meant the sacrifice of quiet evenings with poetry, well. Better that one make that sacrifice than that they entered into yet another bloody war, bloody meant in every sense of the word.

 

Greg got through the next couple of days, caught a couple easy ones, crimes of passion, mostly. The one was a simple "If I can't have you, no one will," the other was a pair of assholes fighting over the match on telly at a pub; really, that was more death by misadventure, as far as he was concerned. Manslaughter, really; the one fellow hadn't meant to kill the other, just bash him upside the head with a supremely heavy beer mug. Caught his temple, fellow dropped dead. Bad business, but it was what it was, even with the perp bawling his eyes out in lockup. 

Still, when he went down The Dog and Sparrow on Thursday night, he was well ready just to have a couple of pints and talk with Anthea. He wanted badly to know how Mycroft had handled the trauma, and not just for professional reasons. Stanley, the barman, saw him as he came in, wiping his wet feet on the mat carefully; the floor was slippery as eels when it was wet out. "Oi, Greg," Stan called. "Bird's in the back corner, to the road." 

"Thanks," he called, and headed to where the dark haired and eyed bean-sidhe sat, a glass of red wine before her. Moira caught up to him before he got there, handing him a full pint and nodding at him. "Chips?" he asked her, and she nodded again, heading off, tray propped carefully against her hip with another half dozen pints and a pitcher on it. He slid in, back to the door which made him prickle, but hell, if a Wailing Woman couldn't keep him safe, he may as well give up life for a bad business. "Miss Anthea," he said politely before taking a sip of his lager. Oh, that was good.

"Sheriff," she said, winking at him. "I know you're a D.I. now, but you'll always be THE Sheriff to me."

"M called worse on the reg," he joked, sitting back. "How's your week?"

"All right," she nodded. "With Sherlock under Aunt Leanan's thumb, things are ever so much quieter."

"Oh, I bet," Greg mumbled, sipping again. AUNT Leanan? Jesus. "And how's himself?"

"Busy," she sighed. "He's at home tonight, but I have to ask you not to keep him too late tomorrow; he has an early flight to Johannesburg on Saturday. I can't tell you why."

"That's...a flight," Greg agreed, mind whirling. "What does he do, exactly?" Anthea pursed her lips, frowning.

"He...does everything that Parliament and the Prime Minister cannot do," she said at last. "Responsibilities and concerns that certain agencies bring to his attention. He..." she frowned harder, if it was possible. "He makes things smooth," she said after a sip of her wine. "He makes ugly things disappear for the Government. Makes very, very hard decisions sometimes. I really cannot tell you anymore without being forsworn."

"Wouldn't ask that of you," Greg said affably. "And how've you been?" An elegantly shaped eyebrow arched up.

"No one asks us that," she said softly. "I've been well. We -- my sisters and I -- have been very well."

"Good," he replied to that as Moira came over with two baskets of chips, set them, another glass of red wine, and another pint on the table; looking down, Greg realized somehow he'd drank half of his first already. "Thanks, Moira."

"It's nothin'," she signed one handed, and walked on. 

"She's not deaf," Anthea said as Greg drew one of the baskets of chips closer to himself.

"Nah. Mute. Nice enough," Greg shrugged.

"I didn't know you knew sign."

"Good thing to know for a copper," he said, biting in; perfect, crisp on the outside, crisp enough to crunch. He dropped his voice to just above a whisper, trusting that she, as a faerie, would still be able to hear him. "But she won't be back around for a bit, so. Tell me. Did he go to a therapist?"

"He did," she said, her fingers tapping an odd rhythm on the table between them. "No one will hear us now, Sheriff."

"Good. On both counts," he said, wiping the grease and salt from his fingers with a napkin and leaning forward. "Tell me what the ruddy Irish Prince did, Anthea."

"I can't," she said, her eyes dropping to her wine glass. "I honestly can't, Sheriff, I am under geas not to speak of it, ever. Aunt Leanan doesn't want it out."

"Damn it," he muttered, his hand dropping flat to the table, smacking it hard enough to sting the palm. "I don't -- I like him, Anthea, I liked him then, even as a lynx, I liked what I saw the other day, I like the texts I got the other night. I don't want to misstep, yeah? I don't --"

"No," she said, shaking her head. "He's...he was in therapy, three times weekly, for two years. I don't know he's been put back together proper, but -- he's better than just after. Much better than just after. Just after, it was all he could do to be in the same room with an alpha, even Sherlock, and Sherlock's...well. I think you know."

"No. No, what's wrong with Sherlock? He's an alpha," Greg said, and Anthea snorted.

"Sherlock is not an Alpha. Not completely," she said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He's...nontrinary. He presents both alpha and omega sexual organs." Greg blinked at her, his mind not quite accepting what she said. "He has the capability of knotting and of bearing, Sheriff."

"Jesus Christ," Greg replied, laying his head back against his seat. "Yeah. Yeah, alpha aggressiveness, omega moodiness, I've seen it, I've seen it and never put it together, goddamn. Poor John."

"Oh, Dr. Watson will deal with it just fine," Anthea smirked. "I have no doubt of it."

"Still, 's rare, innit?"

"Very. Perhaps a dozen people in the world, throughout every generation, present that way." She sipped her wine again. "But we're not here to talk about Sherlock."

"No. We're not," Greg agreed. "So. Tell me about what not to do, because I don't want to scare him."

Anthea toyed with the stem of her wineglass, dark eyes darting between the door and Greg. "He's not been in a proper relationship," she began. "Not ever, in all the time we've been with him."

"We?"

"My sisters and I. Iona, Aneira, and me."

"Okay," Greg nodded, though his mind ran with that information, too. He was important enough to have three Wailing Women? Jesus crucified. "Not even in uni?"

"No. He has...accepted aid...when he was younger, but was careful, was very careful always of his neck; he wore a guard. With an enchanted lock." She shrugged. "He always knew he was meant for important things, and so was...unwilling, unable, to accept any immature offers."

Greg blew out a breath. "Okay," he said, nodding slowly. "And now?"

"And now, he had me run a level five background check on you when you began working with Sherlock; he dotes on Sherlock, he does, but they have a very antagonistic relationship. Partly because Sherlock is difficult, partly because...he thought the Prince...he's so far ahead of most people," she jumped around a bit, and Greg tried to follow. "He's so far ahead, he thinks -- do you play chess, Sheriff?"

"I do. Not well, but I do."

"To compare his mind to most others, even amongst my kind; he plays three-dimensional chess at a grandmaster level. Most, even amongst us, only play two. Oh, some more clever than others. But almost everyone else plays two. The Prince is at his level, and it was heady, it was...it was intoxicating for him, to be able to, I believe he hoped, make a friend who could understand him fully. But the Prince betrayed him. Cruelly. Foully. And he had best keep himself out of London for a very long time, yet." Her eyes slid silver, fully silver, no pupils, no whites, and Greg felt his blood run cold. "I am not the...not the most...unbiased of guardians," she said, looking away. "I failed him. I failed him, Sheriff, my own, I failed him when he needed me most."

"I'm sure it wasn't your fault," Greg offered, and she gave an odd little laugh, half a sob, before looking at him again, her eyes moist, but dark, dark brown again. "No, I am, I'm sure it wasn't your fault." She took a deep breath, a sip of her wine, schooled her expression, and it was several minutes before she spoke again.

"The Prince has a pet," she said softly. "A tiger in shape, a vicious killer both ways. And somehow...I don't know how, it's magic most foul...somehow he has fit his tiger with iron claws. Or he had, anyway. My aunt has him in thrall now, but there is no guessing what might happen in future; even the seers and scryers say it is all a fog. But. They had met to discuss...I can't say what...and his pet attacked me. Nearly killed me. I left a mark or two of my own, but...by the time I was able to call for help, it was too late. The Prince had my Mycroft, and they were gone. We heard nothing then, nothing until you found him."

"How long?"

"Five months," she murmured. "Five long months. I searched, I and both my sisters, we haunted this island from top to bottom, and could find nothing. Until you brought him back to us. But I've jumped all around, and can tell you only this more; he was rid of the monsters he carried that night. Therapy for years. He had me run the level five on you to ensure that you would not, could not, hurt Sherlock, and he knows from that check that you are safe. Loyal, hardworking, honest to a fault, never bonded, and that the long-term association you had with Sharon broke apart because she was unfaithful, and you did all you could to make it work."

"Everything but what she really wanted," Greg sighed. "I loved her, but I couldn't afford adoption fees, or in vitro." Sharon. He hadn't really thought of her in a year and more. 

"No. And the gym teacher, Petras, he already had the child. His omega was dead." She sipped her wine again. "I wonder if he knows that she didn't marry him for him, but for the chance to be a mother."

"Dunno. Don't care, either," he said fiercely. "Not my fault. I got tested, I got lots of little wigglies. It was her, and she wouldn't accept that."

"No. She was beta, she should have been able to bear once, at least." Anthea looked out at the pub around them, and he sipped at his lager while he waited for her to speak again, had another couple of chips. "He is afraid of several things when it comes to you, Sheriff. But he does not fear for his safety, and neither do I; you have a good heart, and we trust that you will not overstep. He fears that his work will drive wedges between you. There will be times when he must leave the country without warning, or much of any. Times when a date may be cut short, because he must leave, that instant, to smooth something over. He will not be able to share much of his work with you, not much at all; you're simply not cleared, nor is there a likelihood of you being so."

"He's an important man, doing an important job for important people," Greg shrugged. "I understand that. I can deal with that."

"He could be gone for weeks at a time, and you not informed of where we are; the longest we've ever had to be gone is six weeks at a time, but the world is a dangerous place, Sheriff."

"It is," he agreed. "So long as you keep him safe, and I can hear from him every so often, I'll not take that to heart."

"He will likely always be careful of his neck."

"He should be. Every Omega should be," Greg said, almost fiercely. "I've seen too many, too many Omegas bit and bonded against their will, end up in jail because their bloody Alpha got rough and they ended up defending themselves or their kits against them. That's an ugly business, and I'm not one for biting against someone's will. And that's assuming he might choose to share heat with me." The look Anthea cut him made him grin. "Oh, he's not that fond."

"Not yet," she agreed. "He's not had a partner for heat since...since then. Suppressants, for the most part."

"One a year?"

"One a year," she agreed. Heat suppressants were perfectly legal and perfectly safe, for the most part, but once out of the four quarters of the year, it was highly recommended that Omegas go through heat, in order not to cause permanent damage. "He does...at some point, and that point must come sooner rather than later...he does wish to bear."

"That's...good to know," Greg said, looking down at his half-empty pint. "I don't mind siring, so long as I have parental rights."

"You'll have to discuss that between you. I won't intrude there."

"No? Would you be Aunt Anthea, or Nana Anthea?" He asked, chuckling, and was gratified when she smiled rather than taking offense."

"Oh, whichever it would be, there would be three of us. We'll cross that bridge when we get there." She finished the rest of her wine, leaned forward again. "He is interested, Sheriff. He's just...shy. Afraid. Not very well versed in courting." 

"I'll keep all that in mind," Greg promised. "I'll be careful."

"Do." Her eyes bore holes into him. "I understand that sometimes things don't work out, despite people's best intentions. Just. Don't hurt him on purpose, Sheriff."

"I wouldn't. Not him, not anyone, not on purpose," Greg said seriously. 

"I believe that," she said, cocking her head and giving him a funny little smile. "I truly do." She tapped the table three times with her left hand, and a pressure in Greg's head lifted, his ears popping. "It was good to see you, Sheriff."

"Good to see you, Lady. And thanks." She nodded, rose, and he rose with her, seeing her to the door of the pub before returning to the table and gathering his thoughts. Ethically, he could -- yeah. It had been ten years, so that wasn't a thing. He sighed, took out his mobile, texted Mike.

"Heard about our little friend from so long ago. Therapy was a go, seems maybe it took. Date tomorrow." The response was almost immediate.

"Oh, that's grand. Where are you?"

"Dog & Sparrow."

"& Date tomorrow. Good. Lunch tomorrow?"

"Kelly's?"

"Kelly's. Noon?"

"Noon."


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch with a friend; first date; first real obstacle.

Mike was already waiting at the chippy the next day when Greg came in, raised a hand and waved him over. "Oi. How's life, then?"

"Grand, mate," Greg said, grinning widely. "Absolutely grand." His Barnaby suit, freshly pressed, waited in his flat for him to change and meet Mycroft that evening.

"Good on you," Mike grinned back. The two men ordered when Kelly himself came down to get their order, turned back to their conversation when he left them.

"So when are you asking Molly out?" Greg asked, and Mike snorted.

"She's a new fella hanging about. Jim from IT." Mike's upper lip curled, and Greg raised an eyebrow at the sight; the burly Beta wasn't ever like this. "I don't like him, Greg. Her crush on Sherlock's bad enough, this'un, this'un's a bad business, I can't put m'finger on it, but there's something behind his eyes I don't like. Not at all."

"You want I should run him?"

"No," Mike grumbled after a moment, his eyes cutting down to the counter. "Just...I want better for her."

"So step up and be that better, mate," Greg urged him. "She's a good lass. A sweet girl. And you deserve to try, At least to try."

"Oh, aye, that wee slip of a thing'd look twice at me," Mike grumbled, a meaty fist thumping his own pudgy body, and Greg sighed, shoving his arm.

"Lookit. She's a grand one, aye that. And we both agree, she deserves better than Sherlock's madness and shite, and whatever that Jim fella's pushing. I know you, Mike, and she knows you, too. She's got to know you'll treat her right. You've been pinin' after her for years now, mate." Kelly brought their orders over then, and both men dropped the subject until after the first half of the baskets were empty of chips and fish.

"I just..." Mike began, pulling a piece of fish apart, white meat steaming in its cloud of brown batter. "I just wish she'd at least see me as something more than just Doctor Stamford, the nice lecturer."

"So give her a chance to see you as something more than the good doctor," Greg offered. "Ask her to something. Even just as friends. Something that's not anything to do with medicine or dead things." He dabbed his own fish in a bit of vinegar, looked outside at the fall day, grinned wide. "Next week. Check the weather first, don't want to ask this on a wet day, but ask her to the zoo. Or if it's supposed to rain, to the British Museum." Mike cut his eyes at Greg. "What? We live here, we never go, the tourists and all that, but you can't deny it's a grand adventure. And you'll learn more about her from the exhibits she spends time at, that she really looks at, rather than glancing and passing by."

"If it were spring, would you suggest Kew Gardens, then?" Mike sneered, but Greg just grinned.

"I might," he said, popping the bite in his mouth. "I might well." He wiped his hands on his napkin, turned to face Mike better. "What's she like? Other than dead things and Sherlock."

"She has cats."

"Does she have a shape, or --" Mike nodded. 

"Tabby cat."

"Beta?" Another nod, and Greg thought about all of the information he had before snorting. "Here, take this," he said, handing Mike the salt shaker in front of them. Mike looked puzzled, but took it. "Now listen. My gran on my da's side, she was tabby cat, and she liked cats and whatnot. You know what else she liked? Yarn. She crocheted. See if there's...what's it called...damn it..." he struggled, trying to think of the things Gran would do when she came up to London once a year. "A yarn crawl. That's it. See if she wants to go on a yarn crawl."

"What's that when it's to home?"

"Yarny people, knitters and crocheters, that type, they go from yarn shop to yarn shop, have a class, browse the wares. Gran did that the last few years before she passed. Ask her if she wants to go a private yarn crawl, tell her you'll buy her one skein from every shop." Greg almost hummed, he was so pleased with himself. "She wants more, she'll have to pick it up, but you'll go one from each." Surprisingly, Mike smiled...then broke into a full on grin.

"My mum knits," he said, leaning in to Greg. "I could ask her could she come help me find things for Mum for Christmas. If she does that sort of thing, I don't know if she does."

"So ask," Greg pushed. "And if she does, oh, Molls, I've no idea what I'm doing, but help me find summat for me Mum for Christmas, do. Help me find good things, I don't mind the cost so much, but I don't want to get the wrong thing."

"Gor, that's brilliant, mate!" Mike laughed, deep and hearty, and Greg found himself pleased to hear it. 

"And offer to buy her summat for the trouble."

"Aye, of course," Mike agreed, nodding. "I know her, wee mouse that she is; she'll push that off, tell me she's just happy to help."

"If you play it right, do one shop one day, another shop another, ask her to lunch every time, you can stretch it out," Greg said, pointing a chip at Mike in emphasis. ""Keep an eye on what she looks at, she is a bit of a mouse, but she'll look at things. And get summat of that for her for Christmas. And then you ask her on a real date, and she'll know you better then, she'll know you're not just the jolly doctor."

"Genius, you," Mike nodded, grinning ear to ear. "Genius." 

"It rubs off," Greg joked, and Mike laughed again before settling down. 

"And our friend. He's Sherlock's brother?"

"Yeah," Greg sighed. "Bad things happened to him, Mike. I don't know everything, I can't ask. But bad."

"We knew that."

"We did. But still." He pushed the rest of his basket of fish and chips away at the thought. "I want to do right by him. I don't know that...that I'm right for him, apparently he's on a level with Sherlock. But I like him."

"No telling whether it'll be a lasting thing or not."

"No," Greg admitted. "But it's only a first date."

 

 

He walked right by Adelaide's on the first pass, heard Agatha huff a bit a step behind him, but she said nothing, so he simply kept walking, made the block, came back around and this time entered the bistro. Soft piano music played from hidden speakers, ferns, real ones, and fresh flowers were placed strategically around the foyer. A gentleman stood behind the maitre'd's station, looking up with a practiced smile as he and Agatha entered. "Good evening, sir. May I help you?"

"Yes. I'm meeting a Mr. Lestrade here this evening," he said, handing Agatha -- Anthea, he reminded himself -- his brolly. The maitre'd nodded, looking over his book, looked up with a practiced, smooth smile.

"Mr. Lestrade is waiting, sir, but I'm afraid he only made a reservation for two."

"That's fine; my assistant will wait at the bar, thank you."

"Yes, sir. This way, please." He followed the maitre'd into the dining area, Agatha laying a hand (and a tracking spell, he could feel it) on his back before they parted. The bistro was rather nice, really, the flowers on each table potted, breathing out heady fragrance. All the same, thankfully, daisies, cheerful white and yellow faces and scent. Lestrade was in the back of the room, close to both a fire exit and the kitchen door. Well thought. He stood as the maitre'd and Mycroft approached, a wide smile spreading across his rugged face.

"Mycroft," he said, holding out his hand, and Mycroft took it, shook with both of his own.

"Gregoire," he said softly, and the maitre'd smiled, glancing between them. 

"You have menus, I see," the man said, nodding. "Astra is seeing to you, Mr. Lestrade?"

"She's been lovely," Gregory told him. "Thanks." The maitre'd nodded once more and walked away. The corner they were in had only four other couples at tables, and so they remained standing another moment, just looking at one another, and Mycroft was glad of it; the vision of Gregory in a Barnaby and Sons bespoke suit, charcoal gray, an off-white, not quite sky blue, shirt beneath it, a storm-gray tie; oh. The look was...

"...Exquisite," Mycroft murmured, and was gratified to see a ruddy tinge rise to Gregory's face.

"Too kind, and you took the words right from my mouth," he replied. "That's not Barnaby."

"No; Collier."

"Well cut. Very well cut. Probably six months of my pay, but worth it," Gregory said, looking him up and down, and he felt the heat rising to his own face. "Well, do sit down; I didn't order anything besides sparkling water yet." Almost as soon as they were seated again, a short, shapely blonde came up, her pad already in hand.

"Welcome to Adelaide's, gentlemen. Would you like a drink?"

"I was thinking perhaps a lovely Moscato with a fruit plate," Gregory suggested. "The Vajrata d'Asti?"

"Sounds delightful," Mycroft said, surprised that he wasn't suggesting something heartier. The waitress only nodded, scribbled it down on her pad.

"Will that be glasses, or a bottle?"

"Oh..." Gregory looked to Mycroft, warm brown eyes questioning. "How long can you stay?"

"I'm afraid I can't give you much more than an hour, perhaps an hour and a half," he replied, truly sorry for it now; this was a delightful little place, and he was sure he would enjoy the company.

"You're a very busy man, and I'll happily take what you can spare," Gregory said before turning back to the server. "A carafe, please." Mycroft blinked -- that was actually perfect. "And the fruit plate -- perhaps if you just brought two saucers, added a few extra strawberries?"

"I'll see what I can do for you, Greg," she smiled, a real smile, the kind a server saved for regulars who tipped well. "Back in a few with your wine and glasses." She hurried off, leaving the two of them. "You'll like this," he said as he spread his napkin. "They send the fruit and cheese out on a platter with a knife, you cut for yourself. Of course, the one bloody time I brought your brother in here, he tried to see how long a peel he could get off an apple."

"That is one of his favorite games," Mycroft replied, spreading his own napkin and getting comfortable. "How has your week gone, Detec --"

"Greg. Or Gregoire, if you must," Gregory interrupted him with a wry smile and a warm twist to the French pronunciation of his name. 

"Gregoire, then. How has your week been?"

"Fair," his...oh, he may as well, his date answered him. "Caught a couple, both easy as pie, one's a shame and the other's a rotten bastard. And yourself?"

"Well, we have managed not to have too massive of a traffic blockup this week, so I count it a victory," he replied, and Gregory frowned.

"I know I'm only a copper," he said lowly. "And I know I've no clearance to speak of. But no lowly transport fella has a bean-sidhe at his heels, Mycroft." Damn.

"I...cannot tell you precisely what I do, Gregoire."

"I get that," Lestrade nodded, his eyes flicking behind Mycroft, a warning; and here was Astra with their wine and glasses. Once all was poured and put proper and she was away, he went on. "I get that you're high mucky-muck Yes Minister, I get that. Don't worry on that. You don't have to give me details. I can't give you details on an open case m'self. But you can say, surely, whether it's been a good day or a bad one, a good week or a bad one?" Mycroft hesitated, ran the odds in his head, nodded.

"I can do that, but I'm afraid not much more. A fair week, as you said; believe me when I tell you that you would know if it were otherwise."

"All right." Astra came again, a large wooden cutting board in her arms. Apples, pears, grapes, strawberries, spilled colors against the dark grain, a wedge of white cheese standing guard in one corner, two fruit knives, handles up, in a compartment at the other.

"Gentlemen. The cheese tonight is Havarti, and Greg, Addie says she'll be out in about ten to check on you."

"Cousin," Gregory said to Mycroft before replying to Astra. "That's lovely. Thanks so."

"You're welcome. Let me know if you need anything more -- oh, there's wipes," she said quickly, digging into her apron for a small packet of wet wipes for their hands. "Things get sticky, you know."

"Very kind," Mycroft said, nodding thanks at her before she went off again. "So this is your cousin's establishment?"

"It is. She's done well; started off as a patisserie, expanded to dinner service. It's beautiful, we're very proud."

"It has a lovely ambience," he agreed, waiting for his date to select a fruit first. The rugged hand hovered a moment over the pear he had his own eye on before passing on to a green and red striped apple.

"Share and share alike?" Gregory suggested as he took the pear, and he nodded smiling, before slicing it clean in half and offering it in exchange for half the apple. Both cut a nice slice of cheese, and the two shared a bit of silence as they arranged the fruit as they liked it. Everything, Mycroft had to admit, was lovely. The fruit was at just the right time of ripening, the cheese was a luscious creamy counterpoint, the wine was divinely paired with a fruit plate. The music, the flowers...and Gregory looked amazing, and was being so well mannered.

"I like this," he said quietly, and Gregory graced him with a warm smile. "This is...nice."

"I think so, yeah. I mean, I could have gone further upper crust, but...I like this. It's not someplace all the pretty people go, but it's good food, good music, quiet."

"I'll remember it; open for lunch as well?"

"Yes, but it's a very limited lunch menu." Gregory chewed, swallowed. "Read anything good lately?"

"Ah...other than reports, I take it."

"Rather. I get enough of those myself, and write them, too." Again, that smile.

"Pablo Neruda. Los Versos de Capitan," he said, and watched those dark eyes melt at his pronunciation of the Spanish phrases. 

"You say that like I should know the author, 'fraid I don't," Gregory said, his tone inviting. "Can you tell me about it? About him?"

"Neruda is...hmm." He leaned back a bit in his chair, sipped his wine as he tried to think of how to encapsulate a master poet, a foreign master poet, in a few phrases. "I prefer to read his work in the original Spanish, but even in English, he has a way of striking the heart and making it sing."

"You're a romantic," Gregory said.

He scoffed, more for show than anything else. "I cannot afford to be that."

"You are, though," he insisted. "Just that phrase. Striking the heart and making it sing. That's the words of a romantic." He, too, sipped at his wine. "Tell me some of his poetry. No, don't even, you've got a photographic memory like Sherlock, I know you do. Tell me."

Embarrassed, Mycroft shook his head. "Not...not here." Oh, but the perfect Neruda poem rose up in his mind; Love Sonnet XI, "I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair..." but he didn't speak the words. "Not here," he said again, glancing around, and Gregory nodded, letting it go. 

"If it's that powerful, you're right," he said, looking down at his hands. "Perhaps another time."

"Yes. Yes, another time," Mycroft agreed, then inwardly winced at his own eagerness -- he'd showed his hand. He had showed his hand, he, the Iceman, famous for not showing whether he gave a toss over tens of millions of pounds, of lives, in negotiations, had been eager.

"Something maybe a bit more intimate," Gregory was saying. "A walk in the park, a film, something of that sort?"

"I...films are difficult," he had to admit. "Anthea must be either just beside me, or able to see me at all times."

"I've been vetted; would she have to do the same at mine?"

"She...would have to check before we entered, and stay very close by, but..no," he admitted. "No."

"Excellent. Then next time, you can come to mine, we'll watch something horribly campy or horribly romantic, your choice." 

"I -- yes. All right," he found himself agreeing without even truly thinking about it.

They went on, talking about small things, really, testing one another out, and by the end of the evening, when Adelaide came out and hugged Gregory, brushed her hand over Mycroft's shoulder, things seemed very set indeed. They walked out of the restaurant together, not hand in hand for there was and always would be nasty prejudices, but still, very close to one another. "Walk you to your car?" Gregory offered, and he nodded acquiescence, Agatha staying back about three feet at his glance. "Listen," Gregory said quietly. "I'm for my rut in about four weeks; I'm going out of country to take care of it, I usually go the Caymans. I want you to know." He blinked at that; most people he knew never spoke of such a thing at all, and barely noticed as Gregory steered him to a doorway of a closed shop, speaking very, very quietly. "I can't help my biology," Gregory said firmly. "And you know that there aren't suppressants for Alpha. Not like for you. I can't not go into rut, and -- and I won't risk --" he turned his head, looking out into the lightly misting evening before he went on. "I like you. I think you like me. I think this could be something, someday, but I won't risk it, won't risk the dream of it, for my bloody knot. So I'll take myself off to a nice place in the Caymans, deal with the bullshit, and be home as soon's I can. I'll be careful, I'll be discreet."

Logic streams of information finally linked themselves together in his head, and he nodded, coming back to himself. "Minette's. isn't it?"

"Yeah. It's a necessity, I don't like it the way it is -- it's not --" Gregory shook his head. "I'm a bit of a romantic, m'self. But I can't help what I can't help."

"No. Of course not."

"It's just biology, and we're not -- in four weeks? There's no way we'd be attached enough for me to be careful with you," Gregory said, his eyes pleading. "I don't -- the timing is shite, but it's true. Not to mention, I won't, I don't, never have, insisted that an Omega share heat or rut with me. I won't do it. Your body. Your choices. Always."

"You're -- I'm sorry, Gregoire. I'm not quite following why you're telling me this at all," he had to admit.

"Because I don't want you to think I'm taking myself off to the Caymans to cheat," Gregory said firmly. "It's not a matter of desire. It's a matter of biology. Of safety, your safety. Alphas in rut are overly aggressive, and unless we're with an Omega we care very much for or are bonded to, it's dangerous. We're just -- sort of testing out courting, it wouldn't be safe for you."

"And the Omega you knot in the Caymans will be?"

"Yes. Because I'll be tied down," Gregory retorted. "Chained down, honest. Minette is very careful of her Omegas, it's why I go to her. She won't let me hurt anyone."

"If you imagine that Anthea would allow it, you're very much mistaken."

"I also don't have a death wish."

"Point for you. Yes. All right. Yes, the timing does leave a great deal to be desired, but --"

"But I want you to know that I will be careful, and that when I come back, I intend to go right on courting you, instead....if you're agreeable. If you can."

"I can understand that you have certain biological needs that must be attended to."

"Can you?" Gregory's voice was...sad. "I honestly can't help it."

"Biology trumps so much," he sighed. "I can. And I thank you for bringing the matter up."

"Don't hold it against me."

"I..." the logical answer would be, I won't, I don't. He was being honest, and he was telling the truth; rut could not be suppressed. It had to be allowed to run its course. And Gregory's insistence on not forcing his rut upon him was a good thing. It was. But something in his heart, that organ that he tried so hard to suppress, was riling up ugly and mean, and he had to ignore its screeching in order to look at the logistics. "I find that I am not so good a man as to hope you have a good time," he said after a moment. "And I do think that the timing is horrid. But I also see now what you are saying, and I find myself appreciative of the warning, and agreeable, I believe, to go on exploring this avenue when you return."

"Bless," Gregory said, shaking his head -- he needed a haircut -- brown and grey waves shaking. "I think I got all that, but maybe you could say it a bit simpler? I had three glasses of wine."

"Thank you for letting me know, and thank you for -- not insisting on advancing any sort of timeline. Physically. And when you return, I believe I would enjoy...going on with the courting."

"Oh, thank Christ," Gregory sighed, sagging against the wall he leaned on. "I fought m'self all day whether to tell you or not, but I thought, best get it out and over, 'cause to just drop it right before I left, that'd be unfair as hell, wouldn't it?"

"It would have been, yes," he agreed. 

"So we're all right?"

"As...as all right as I find I can be, I believe. I will have to think about it."

"Okay. Okay, that's better than it could have been," Gregory said, nodding. "Well." He leaned forward, left a kiss as bright as rainbows on Mycroft's cheek. "I'll let you get home, then. Call me if you get a chance."

"I...I shall," Mycroft stuttered again. "I had a lovely evening."

"A beautiful time," Greg agreed. "Call me." He walked off quickly as Agatha stepped up beside Mycroft, her gaze flashing between the two of them.

"Sir?"

"Home," he said quietly. "Let's go home. Johannesburg in the morning, after all."

"Yes, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....*ducks*....  
> ....*runs*....


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations with friends and enemies alike.

Work was, unfortunately, awful and horrid, and kept the two apart more than together over the next week, and then of course Sherlock returned. With John.   
Which meant that there had to be the confrontation.

"Impossible," Sherlock sneered. "Professionalism? Your crime scene techs can barely tie their own shoelaces without careful coaching from Mother, and you want professionalism from me?"

"Until you can treat my team with respect, Sherlock, you'll not have a case from this department," Greg insisted, glad, for once, that his bloody rut was coming. It made him meaner. "You're bloody brilliant, and I know that. I hate doing it, I hate keeping you from the work, I know how important it is to you. But you cannot, will not, shall not, be allowed to come swanning in and calling us all bloody idiots and wankers every other sentence. I won't stand for it another moment."

"Graham --"

"And that includes remembering my bloody name," Greg said, and yep, here came the flush of Alpha anger as he stood. "I will not be disrespected in my own office."

Sherlock's mouth opened and closed several times as the two stared at one another, pheromones fucking choking half the bloody floor before Sherlock stepped back, his mouth in a moue of distaste.

"You're too close to rut to be reasoned with," he spat. 

"I am close to rut, but not so much I can't be reasoned with, if you're willing to use and see reason," Greg insisted. "I want a certificate, signed off by Inspector Alexander, that you have completed the entirety of the NSY course in Professional and Multicultural Courtesy, and I want your solemn word of honor that you will use said professional courtesy amongst my team, or else I promise you, lad, I'll not have you back. And since I'm the only one who's ever been willing to allow you to assist, that leaves you out in the cold." Sherlock's mouth dropped open, and he took a step backwards, obviously incredulous.

"That's a six-week course!"

"It is. Three times a week," Greg agreed. "How lucky for you that Alexander has said that when you decide to take it, he'll let you in the class. You still have to take the whole six weeks, but it must be done, Sherlock." Oh, if that glare could become lasers, Greg would be dead. As it was, the critter that hung round John's leg hissed at him, but he ignored it for now. He just wasn't a good enough magician to do anything about the little fucker.

"Come along, John," Sherlock spat at last, coat whirling around his knees as he turned to leave the office, and Greg sank into his chair, scrubbing his face with his hands. Fuck. Fuck a goddamn duck and everyfuckingthing else. 

"Fucking wanker," Greg muttered, pulling himself back up to his desk proper. He was still pissed, he couldn't work like this, he couldn't do anything like this. The sound of opening windows and fans drifted in from the outer office, and he couldn't blame them. The stink of Alpha was everywhere, and he hated it, he hated losing his temper, he despised losing his temper this close to rut, it made him practically blind and twice as bloody useless. He stood, grabbing his jacket, strode out of his office and locked the door. "It's yours the rest of the day, Donovan," he said, heading for the stairs. "I can't. I'm --"

"Go," Donovan agreed, waving him on. "I'll ring you if something pops up."

"Thanks." He hit the door with his forearm and kept plowing forward, his anger a goddamn visceral thing in his gut as he got outside, started for home. He really should get a cab, or a bus, but he didn't want to subject anyone to his scent right now. The rain coming down washed it away, even if it was cold. Fucking hell. Fucking Sherlock, fucking bastard, goddamn it. Goddamn it, goddamn him. Fucking bastard. Fucking bastard. He'd be eight fucking different kinds of sick before he got home from the rain and the cold, and fuck his life and fuck his death and every last goddamned one of the choices he'd ever made. 

Forty-five minutes later, he was heading up the stairs to his flat, wanting nothing more, nothing fucking more, than a good hot cuppa and maybe some toast. He was tired, he was still pissed, though his scent and his temper had settled quite a bit. He went in, dropped his keys in the bowl, kicked off his now too fucking wet shoes, stripped all the way to the kitchen.

"Quite the show," came Mycroft's dry voice, and he stopped, trousers already unbuckled and unbuttoned, in the hall. A rustling. Careful, quiet steps behind him. "Quite the show indeed. However does one resist it?"

"Mycroft..." he bit his lip, kept his back to the man. "Mycroft, I'm too close to my rut and I was angry today. Please. Do us both a favor. Leave."

"I wish I could argue with your logic, Greg." No. No, that's -- that's not -- he began the spell before he turned, fingers marking the rune against illusion. For half a breath, he saw a dark head rather than a ginger, manic glittering eyes, a wide mad grin. Then Mycroft's features returned. 

"I bind unto myself today," Greg began, and the intruder hissed, reaching for his throat, "the strength of sky, light of sun," he ducked, driving himself forward into the false Mycroft's belly and knocking him back, "radiance of moon, brightness of flame --" his fist high, landing solid in the impostor's face, "swiftness of light --" the impostor pushed him back with strength that wasn't fucking human, throwing him halfway across the room before dashing to the door and out of it. He listened to the feet pounding down the stairs, heard the outside door burst open and slam against the wall as he slumped there, tired, still pissed, more pissed, really, before he pushed himself up and tugged his pants up and buckled his belt again. He picked up his jacket, took out his mobile.

 

"Holmes." He wasn't very pleased at the moment, even with Gregory on the line; Sherlock had come in ranting and raving about not being allowed cases anymore, and he'd had to deal with that. Berk, as Gregory called him.

"You don't sound out of breath," Gregory said, and he did sound out of breath, and annoyed. "Good. So I didn't just punch you in the face."

"I'm sorry?" He asked, confused.

"Someone was in my flat. Someone wearing your face."

"Wearing my --" He closed his eyes, leaning forward and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Gregoire. I'm sending Anthea for you. Please go with her. She'll take you somewhere safe."

"Who was it, Mycroft?"

"I don't dare say their name."

"It was him, wasn't it? It was that fucking bastard Irishman, wasn't it?" Gregory demanded.

"Most likely," Mycroft breathed, sitting up and reaching for his desk drawer; he needed his migraine meds.

"Well, he can bleed, then. I'm just glad I didn't punch you." Surprisingly, Gregory chuckled. "The Deer's Cry. It puts him off. Remember that."

"The -- I'm sorry?"

"The older version of Saint Patrick's Breastplate," Gregory explained, and he could hear a door shut, hear footsteps. "I suppose the Breastplate itself would work as well, but I never learned that, it's too long. I didn't even get halfway through the old version. Of course, we were fighting, too."

"Were you." Oh merciful God. "Do you happen to know why he was wearing my face, Gregoire? And how did you see through it?"

"He messed up," Gregory said, sounding almost chipper, and now he could hear water running. "He called me Greg."

"I...see."

"You don't. You don't call me Greg."

"Ah." And that made sense. Gregory would notice that. "The fact remains that I am sending Anthea for you."

"Nah. He's gone."

"But you don't know how long he was there. You don't know if he left any magical traps. You don't know --"

"Send her round, then, and she can check. And set up some better wards for me. But I like my flat, and I'm going to have to be gone from it soon enough." And he would likely be safer in the Caymans, Mycroft thought to himself wearily. 

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather go to a safehouse for a few days?"

"I'm sure. Don't worry about the old copper. I got round the bastard once, I'll do it again."

"You won't be so lucky the next time."

"I'll start carrying iron in my pocket. I should anyway."

"Please don't. It will irritate Anthea."

"I'll leave it out when I'm to see you. And when can I see you again, Mycroft? I'd like to very much before I leave."

"We'll -- we'll talk about it."

"You're angry."

"I'm not. I'm envious. There is a difference."

"Mycroft. I'm serious. I would like to see you. Please."

"Tomorrow," he gave in. "Tomorrow evening?"

"I'll make sure I'm available. Will you have time for that film?"

"I'll make time," he replied softly. Moriarty had been in Gregory's home, wearing his face. It was a sign. The prince knew that Gregory meant something to him. That left two choices; grasp Gregory tighter, or let him go entirely. "I'll see you tomorrow, and Anthea will be there within the hour."

"All right. Be careful yourself, don't leave until she gets back."

"I won't."

"And if someone shows up wearing my face, ask them my first dog's name." He was sure he would regret this.

"What was your first dog's name, Gregoire?"

"Ginger," Gregory replied easily. "See you tomorrow." He hung up, and Mycroft did the same, giving Agatha her orders; check Gregory's flat for any nasty little surprises, and ward it so tight not even a dragonfly could get in. He watched the door close behind her, sat back in his chair, steepling his fingers over his chest, glowering. Moriarty knew that Gregory meant something to him, and that left two choices. "You've taken enough from me," Mycroft growled softly. "You'll not have Gregoire. You'll not."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Jimmy-me-lad, you've done it now.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Introspection. Some cleaning. Some new information.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tammany kudo'ed this. I'm thrilled. I love Tammany's work. Noticing that made my birthday._

"Sir?" Greg rubbed his eyes with his left hand, tried like fuck to make his brain work on -- glanced at his clock -- three hours' sleep. Anthea had been distinctly chilly, but not downright cold. And she'd warmed up some after she'd sniffed the air. Right now, he'd be surprised if a damn mouse could get in his flat without his express permission.

"Yeah," he sighed, blinking up at the dark.

"Bloody --" he heard her break off before speaking again, heard her take a deep breath in and out, try to let go of whatever had her so upset. "Sherlock got himself wrapped up in something tonight. Something bad. With -- with a Chinese circus. And smuggling."

"A Chinese -- oh, bleeding Christ," Greg sighed. "He did what now?"

"Friend of his called him, asked for help with a case. Friend of his' employee was dead. Goes on, anyway, it's Dimmock's? But I thought you should know."

"He's all right?"

"Yeah, him and Watson both. I don't get how, but they're okay."

"Anybody else dead?"

"Nah, just the banker-man -- that's his friend's employee." He sighed again, pushed himself up on the bed.

"Okay. Tell Dimmock that from now on, he's not to consult with Sherlock, not until I give the okay."

"Yes, sir," she replied, adding quickly, "You okay, sir? You were real pissed off earlier."

"Yeah," he sighed. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Take some paracetamol for the head. I know how it is with the angry headaches after."

"I will. Might be a bit late coming in today."

"I'll cover until you get there."

"Thanks, love."

He hung up the phone, sat there on his bed for a minute. It was only two in the morning. He could, technically, get up, take a couple of pills, go back to bed. He could still feel the hot pulse of his rut just under the skin. Two weeks more, he told himself. Two weeks more, then the Caymans. Three days of sun and surf, one of temper and heat, five of mindless fucking, one to get over himself, one more of sun and sand, then travel home.

He got up, took the pills, checked the kettle, turned it on and fixed himself a cuppa, sitting down at his kitchen table, popped his laptop open to check his email and look over his reports before having another shower. He'd had one after running the Irishman out of his house, one before bed, and he'd have another and use a scent blocker before leaving for work. He scrolled through, rolled his eyes against some of the idiocy, drank his tea. He pulled back the east facing curtain, looked out on the city sleeping below. His city. He sighed, made himself another cup of tea, and got started cleaning up the place. It needed a good run through by a mess of maids, but he'd make do with what he had, which were his own two hands.

He binned a dozen magazines he hadn't had a chance to read, a stack of junk mail and already paid bills. It was too early to run the Hoover, but he was able to get the furniture polish out and rub down the telly stand, the bookcase, the coffee and end tables. He debated what to do about tea or supper, he'd call in a pizza himself, but Mycroft deserved better -- Angelo's. Angelo would have it delivered, and the man was a bloody genius when it came to pasta and the like. A nice red, spag bol or maybe veal parm, plus tiramisu. It would be good, and his wallet wouldn't take too much of a hit.

He cleaned the bathroom, hung up fresh guest handtowels. He tucked the laundry away in its bag for Saturday, changed his sheets and tucked them away, too, then stood in the living room and considered, looking around -- then sighed. He didn't think...he really didn't think that Mycroft would stay the night. Nor, to be honest, did he need to. Not this close to rut. But he'd take what he could get, safely. He held no fantasies about what would happen tonight, not really. Again, this close to rut, it wasn't safe. Wasn't prudent. And they'd only just begun, and he was older now. He didn't need the instant gratification that he'd sought in his youth with both men and women, didn't need the mindless, frantic fucking he'd found in car parks and filthy club loos, pounding or being pounded to the too fast beat of rapid drums or wild guitar riffs. He was ready, more than ready, to settle into something slow, smooth, easy. Not that relationships were ever easy, but...well. He turned his mind back to his task. He was missing something. Something important.

Scent. It needed to smell better, not like a bloody pissed Alpha, nor the piss from the alley out back. He didn't have anything right offhand, and that irked, but not so much he was going out at three-thirty in the morning for scented candles. He sighed. No. Not now. He crossed over to the bookshelf, slid his hand along the spines. His fingers hesitated on one slim volume -- "The Salt Ecstasies" -- but moved on. He still wished Mycroft had recited him some of that Neruda fellow's work. He would have countered with some of White's. But. Another time. Instead, he tugged down his copy of Pratchett's "Feet Of Clay," sat down and set an alarm in case he was drawn too far into the book, or fell asleep reading, either one of which could happen.

 

It didn't.

 

He got up, took a shower, got dressed, and went in to work. He paused as he got off the lift, heartstrings snapping with each breath. Tad Anderson stood on the far side of the outer office, near the stair door, he hadn't heard him or didn't care, one or the other. Donovan was sprawled over her desk, back to her former lover, passed out cold on her workstation, a doc still up on her screen. Anderson didn't move, didn't say anything, just stood there, and Greg glanced over at the wall clock, dusty and dim but still working, watched the second hand. It went around three times before Anderson moved, walking quietly through the warren of desks to Sally's. Greg didn't say anything, just watched, as Anderson picked up a paper to-go cup, moved it so that when Sally woke, or if she stirred, it wouldn't spill all over her station. He hesitated, hovering over her like a wistful phantom for another breath, and Greg watched his hand twitch toward her shoulder...and then the man turned around and walked away the way he'd come, none of the other inspectors saying anything, likely none of them really noticed it; it was early, and they'd been there late, and were writing up their own reports.

Goddamn it. The idiot really loved her. 

He sighed, and walked on in to begin his day.

 

**Texts from Greg's mobile that day:**

_"Give me a case."_  
"I need a case, Lestrade."  
"Now."  
"A cold case. Surely you have a few of those lying about."  
"You can't be serious about this, Grant."  
"YOU NEED ME."  
"Graham. Give me a case, John is proving most stupid today." 

**"I'm not either, just I hadn't had tea yet." ******

_"Gary. I need a case."_

******"Greg, what's your shift Saturday? Thought we might go down the pub, catch the match."** ** **

_"Geoff, if you do not give me at least a cold case, I promise you, I will come with John to the pub and I will ruin the match for everyone."_

******"Perhaps we might not want to go down pub after all."** ** **

****_**"Gregoire. We never decided a time. 7-ish again? Do call and confirm."** _ ** **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Date night again next chapter.
> 
> ...and if I happen to have any Londonian Brits reading this, I could use some yarn shop recommendations. Molly's got a yarn crawl to go on, after all.   
> (Likely **NOT** next chapter or the one after; we have The Great Game to play, after all)
> 
> Thanks so for all the lovely comments and kudos from everyone, I appreciate everyone's feedback, I truly do.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Date night.

The light was fading, the wind brisk, as he got out of the car and walked quickly to the street door of Gregory's flat. Agatha had already been upstairs, had already done the walkthrough, physically and magically. She would stay downstairs, in the car, close enough to guard, far enough away to allow them some privacy. Not enough; it would never be as it was with other couples, he had to keep that in mind. But for tonight, it would be enough.

He already had the SAS and MI6 and MI5 teams out searching for the prince and his entourage. The Chinese smugglers' ringleader had been found dead, a single bullet wound in her forehead. He had clamped down, hard, on that, all but ripped it from the Commissioner of NSY's hands, hoping with all his heart that they would find some clue, something, that would lead them back to the Irishman. He knew. He knew they were related, knew it in his heart of hearts, though he was not Sherlock, he could not simply enter a room and see all the clues line up exactly and immediately. He could see the beginning, and he could see the end result, but he could not trace the lines down the middle.

But Sherlock couldn't negotiate. Sherlock couldn't keep all the lines of communication together, he couldn't be arsed to remember courtesy, not even to most of the Shining Ones. Godmother let him get away with a great deal, to be honest, much more than she let him get away with -- he tamped the jealousy down. Sherlock didn't know how to dance around the truth with them. How to flatter and cajole them, or any other diplomats. He did. He was able to, as Kipling had said, "walk with Kings -- nor lose the common touch." Sherlock couldn't. Always arrogant, always a bit of a bastard, always a touch too cruel to anyone and everyone.

All these thoughts ran though his head as he went up the short flight of stairs, raising his hand to knock, only for the door to swing open, leaving him face to face with -- "Gregoire," he breathed, the heady scent of Alpha rising to his nostrils, making his head swim. "Good evening."

"Evenin'," Gregory drawled, stepping back, door open, spreading his open hand out to indicate the flat. "Come on in." He was dressed in one of his horrible Marks and Spencer checked shirts, tan trousers, his hair was a bit unkempt, but he'd shaved, and it wasn't just Alpha Mycroft was scenting, but both body wash and cologne, trainers on his feet, a hint of a smile around his lips.

Mycroft considered himself a prudent man. A careful man. A logical man.

But Seamus Moriarty had been here. Wearing his face. Had targeted the one man, the one Alpha, that he had shown any interest in at all since his own horrible experience.

Mycroft took one careful step forward, wrapping his arms around the Alpha, burying his nose in the hollow of his collarbone, heard Gregory suck in a breath before his own arms enveloped him, pulling him close. "Oh, Mycroft," Gregory said softly, the embrace becoming only tighter. "You should have said. You should have said, I'd have come to you."

"Couldn't." Were those tears? He was NOT a weepy Omega, he hadn't wept in public, ever. In the privacy of his rooms, of his therapist's office, yes. Not in public.

"We're not in public right now," Gregory said above him. "Well, partially. Come inside." He sniffed, began to pull himself away, an apology already on his lips, only to be held by one arm in Gregory's embrace as the door closed behind him. "Budge up a sec," Gregory said, a little rough, but not unkind, and he felt him reach around, heard locks click into place. "Not locking you in, love. Locking the rest of the world out. Want to help?" He nodded, finally raising his head from that wonderful patch of darkness, turning to mark the door with the most potent runes of protection and privacy that he knew, the door all but crackling with power as he drew his hand away. "Bloody hell, you don't want to be disturbed, do you?" Gregory huffed a laugh. "Come on. Supper?"

"Delightful," he managed to get out, finally regaining his equilibrium, inasmuch as he could, anyway. Moriarty would have taken this from him. This moment. This man. This Alpha. Would have taken him away and likely tortured him to death. "The aroma is tantalizing." Now he could smell oregano, thyme, basil, marinara.

"Yeah. Wasn't sure if you'd want spag bol or veal parm," Gregory said, leading him further into the flat, so that he could see the two aluminium tins on the table, steam rising. A wicker basket, full of bread. A bottle -- a rather good bottle -- of red wine, two glasses already poured before the plates. 

"I'm happy with either," he said, allowing Gregory to fuss a moment over the plate, the chair. Alphas did that. He didn't protest the heaping portions Gregory dished out, either; he didn't have to clean his plate, after all, and again, an Alpha this close to rut would want to see a healthy, well-fed Omega.

"Got dessert, too," Gregory said as he took his place across the table. "Tiramisu, if that's agreeable?"

"Absolutely delightful," he agreed, taking a piece of the still warm garlic toast from the basket Gregory held out. He waited until Gregory had his head down, chattering, concentrating on getting the pasta on his fork proper, before waving the three first fingers of his left hand just a bit. The runes he had drawn on the door expanded to encircle the entire apartment as he envisioned the blueprint in his mind. The power washed right through the room, damn the luck, making Gregory look up, both eyebrows rising. 

"That you, then?"

"Yes."

"Good." He turned his attention back to the food on his plate. "Thank you. 'S more than I can do, though I've bits of iron in every windowsill."

"Well thought," Mycroft said, picking up his wineglass and taking a sip to hide his response to Gregory's...ease...with an Omega using such power so easily. Most Alphas, even the ones he worked with regularly, would have given him at the very least a sharp look, a hard sigh, something. Omegas were not bound to hearth and home anymore, this was true. But long engrained thought patterns and customs were not so easily done away with, and when it came to Alpha/Omega interactions, most Alphas still expected the Omega to blithely look to them for protection. Even in SAS, he had seen it. Hard, well trained, battle experienced Omegas tucked behind the Alphas in front, for example, or glared at if they dared to question an Alpha's strategic decisions, even if the Omega was in command. He began to eat. 

Gregory had placed a bit of spaghetti bolognese and a bit of veal parmigiana on his plate, and he was well pleased with the flavor, the aroma, the textures. The garlic bread was very good, as well. He ate precisely half of each, a full slice of garlic bread, and he had tiramisu to look forward to. Gregory looked to the plate as he pushed it forward, started to frown, he recognized the way the muscles twitched, then closed his eyes, picking up his own wineglass and drinking deeply. "Sorry," he said, shaking his head as he put his wineglass down again. "Sorry, instinct, I guess. Should have known I'd given you too much." He pushed his own mostly empty plate away, though he took another slice of bread, tore off a bit. "Film, then? I believe I gave you a choice between stupid rom-com or camp."

"I believe I prefer the camp this evening, if you've no objections?"

"Ah. Horror camp, romance camp, or comedy camp?"

"Ah...horror camp."

"Excellent. I've just the thing. What are your feelings in regard to Vincent Price?" Gregory grinned, and he found himself smiling.

"I adore the man." He did; Vincent Price was a treasure who had made a place for himself as a master thespian. He'd been pigeonholed, of course, typecast, he'd really had more to offer the world, but his work stood the test of time. It truly did.

"Brilliant!" Greg exclaimed, and pushed his chair back, stood. "I've no room for dessert just yet, you?"

"No." Tiramisu sounded divine, but he really didn't have room right now.

"Then if you'd care to accompany me to the viewing area, we'll bring the wine along and laugh a bit at Price and Barrymore." Gregory slid two fingers along the neck of the bottle, picked up his wine glass and slid it between the other two before offering Mycroft his free hand over the table. He hesitated only a fraction of a second before standing and accepting the invitation, twining his fingers through Gregory's. His hand was rough, well used to work, more work than simply typing up reports and handling papers. They stepped around the table, meeting at the foot, Gregory stretching himself up to brush his lips across Mycroft's, softly, quickly, smoothly, leaning into his taller, ganglier frame. "Don't let me push you too far, too fast, aye?" The barest touch of the North to Gregory's voice as he murmured the words. 

"Aye that, bonny lad," he murmured in the same shaded brogue, bending the bare inch to kiss Gregory better, still chaste, still sweet, but better, firmer, he wanted. He wanted this Alpha, this one, more than he'd wanted anything, more than he'd wanted the Plato in Ancient Greek for his tenth birthday, more than he'd wanted Eurus to return, more than anything -- no. He had wanted Sherlock to live through his overdose more. But not by much. Gregory chuckled under his breath when the kiss broke, looking up at him with warm brown eyes, glinting just a touch of amber; his fox was interested, too. How delightful, because his lynx was purring under his own skin.

"Not Scots."

"Wouldn't dream of calling you so," Mycroft agreed. "Yorkshire, isn't it?"

"Harrogate, aye. Beautiful city, beautiful country." Gently, Gregory led them both to the sofa, setting the wine glass and bottle on the side table before moving to the telly, sliding a disc in the player before coming to join Mycroft at the sofa. "How attached are you to the thought of actually watching the film?"

"Not very."

"Thank Christ." And as the music began to play, Gregory bent his head to Mycroft's again, this time kissing thoroughly, sweetly, the two men exploring one another with mouths and hands; Mycroft shrugged off his suit jacket, careless of the wrinkles that would be left behind, desperate to touch, to feel, this Alpha. This one. All the rest could go straight to hell -- and he realized in that moment that it hadn't just been his lynx that had impressed, all those years ago. Gregory tugged at his tie, growling, gave it up for a bad job, settled for running his hands over his now shirt-sleeved arms instead. "So goddamn sexy, Mycroft," he said, that growl still rumbling in his chest. "Fuckin' layers. Not just on the outside, either, layers of the man, can't wait, can't wait to peel back all those layers."

"What --" Mycroft stuttered, pulling back. "What do you mean?"

"I mean you're bloody complex. Most men, Alpha, Beta, Omega, 's maybe two, maybe three layers to them. Job, hobby, home. You? You're a goddamn eight layer torte. Job I can't know, fine. But there's more to you besides hobbies and home, I know there are. Layers. And I like a bit o' mystery to my lovers. And you'll always have just a bit o' that, I won't ever know you all the way through, and that's fine. That's fine. Keeps me on me toes." Slow, sultry, sexy grin, and Mycroft kissed it right off his face, and then he twisted them round, Gregory above him, pinning his forearms -- he couldn't breathe -- and Gregory backed off, a look of terror crossing his face before he bent forward, keeping his hands in sight. "Sorry; sorry, lover, I should have thought. Should have thought on that. How do you want me, then?"

"I --" he caught his breath, tried to think of what might have given the blink of panic away. "I don't mind your being atop me, my dear."

"No. No, you didn't see your eyes, Mycroft," Gregory said quietly. "I should have been more careful with you."

"Don't," he said softly, closing his eyes. "Don't. I'm not broken. I'm...I'm much better. Much better."

"I know you are, I do," Gregory insisted. "I just don't want to hurt you. In any way. And I know -- I know when I leave, a week and a half from now, that you'll hurt. And I can't help that. I can't. And it irks me, lover. It irks me right down to me bones." The soft brogue was back.

"Don't. Don't hurt yourself over it, my dear. Don't. Lashing yourself over it will do nothing but make you bleed, and I don't like the thought of that at all." He sat halfway up, raised a hand to Gregory's cheek. "What must be done, must be done. You're right. And I treasure the fact that you're so understanding, so careful, of me. Of the experience. Of my choices and of my body."

"You're beautiful," Gregory whispered. "You're bloody beautiful, and I'm the luckiest bastard cop in London this moment, you know that?" His own hand came up, clasping Mycroft's to his cheek, the barest touch of rough stubble to it. "You are."

"I am without doubt the envy of every gay man, every Omega, in the entirety of the British Isles," Mycroft replied, and leaned up more, capturing dear Gregory's mouth with another kiss, and pulling him down with him, the two sliding about on the sofa until they lay side by side; cramped, yes, and he knew he would be sore in the morning. But worth it, he thought. Worth it. Gentle touches, caresses, kisses, exploration, sweet whispers as the film ran unwatched by either of them. They were too wrapped up in one another, in learning how to make the other gasp, how to bring roses to the other's flesh, how to make one another feel as good as they felt, as good as they wanted to feel. They made love without ever taking down a zipper, and Mycroft could never have imagined how much joy his heart could hold. 

All things must end, even delightful evenings of pleasure and abandon, and Gregory walked him down to the street, right to the car, his grin wide and playful as Agatha stepped out of the front seat to open the back door. "Oi, luv. What was my granny's favorite dish again?"

"Shepherd's pie," Agatha replied softly, and Gregory nodded, stepping back, his hand slipping back out of his pocket. "Mr. Holmes. You have several messages, one from Downing Street."

"Le monde ne s'arrête pas pour l'amour," Mycroft sighed. _(The world does not stop for love.)_

"C'est pourquoi il est si important de continuer à le faire," Gregory replied, bringing the hand he still held up to his lips and kissing his knuckles. "Au 'voir, cher." _(No. Which is why it is so important that we keep making it. Good-bye, my dear.)_

The car pulled away, leaving Gregory behind...and Mycroft sighed, and turned himself back to the work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Blame Google Translate for the bad French. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed...because we're about to play a game.
> 
> The Great Game.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The pre-game session.

He wasn't half so blase about any-bloody-thing the next week when the bastard West came up missing, the bloody stick missing with him. Bastard. Utter bastard. Why the idiot had taken them, who he had given them to -- he pushed himself away from his desk, gathered his umbrella, straightened his tie. "Anthea," he called, striding out of his office, to find her already waiting beside the outer door. "Sherlock's."

"Yes, sir." She fell into perfect step behind him, her fingers already flying over her mobile, following him down the quiet carpeted hallway. He stepped to the side out of long practiced ease as she tapped the outer door, unlocking the magical boundaries -- this wing of Whitehall had been separated into a separate realm, only accessible by way of faerie magic, since Victoria's time -- then traded places, following her out into the actual building and down to the parking garage. It was a short wait for theirs, the pair of them sliding in on either side, Agatha opening her own door while Davis opened Mycroft's. They had just pulled out of the gate when Mycroft's phone rang. Gregory.

"As welcome as this distraction is --" Mycroft began, but Gregory's deeper voice, husky with fear and slightly panting, cut him off.

"Mycroft. There's been an explosion. At Baker Street."

His mind, whirling with how to handle the Korean elections, how to delicately tug at his sources at the Brittany and Lyons Courts for more information, how to please God stop the buffoon in Russia from ruining anything else...

Stopped.

Entirely.

He said nothing. Held his breath for a beat as Greg went on. "We don't know how bad yet, bad enough, bad enough that it fucking blew Speedy's the fuck apart, fucking hell, Donovan, watch the goddamn pedestrians! We're on our way right now, so are medical and fire -- fuck ME, bitch, we've lights and sirens, get your arse out the way!"

"Thank you, Gregory; I will endeavor to delay my arrival." He hung up, noticing only then that his hand was shaking, he was shaking, his breath -- his breath -- he turned to Agatha.

"There has been an explosion at Baker Street. Inform Davis that we should hang back a bit; there will be emergency personnel blocking the street, et cetera. I need five minutes."

"Yes, sir," she said softly, tapping the intercom, and he closed his eyes, tried to rearrange the events currently taking up valuable space in his library. Sherlock had a mind palace; he had a country house, much like the home they had grown up in, Holmescroft. The library had been his refuge before -- he bit his lip, refusing to remember -- she had taken Eurus so young, so young! Had to go. She had had to go, she wasn't safe, the magic had gotten away from her, had twisted her -- no.

Deep, steady, calming breaths.

Now.

The Korean elections and the retrieval of the plans were paramount. He had to deal with Korea. Sherlock could not, even if he were fully briefed upon the situation. Sherlock must retrieve the plans. And as for the rest...he could possibly pass off Russia to the Americans, if Sherlock was injured. That would free him up for the retrieval, as well. He did so hate to do that, the Americans were horrid cowboys, always. But needs must. Or might do. Depending. He was rather concerned, to be honest, that Sherlock had been experimenting with Semtex again, but he did hold some small sentiment, at least, for Mrs. Hudson, that would be too dangerous for her, he surely wouldn't -- he surely -- surely -- 

Cold fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, and he opened his eyes to see Agatha frowning at him. "You were murmuring."

"Beg pardon."

"Ask me," she said, her eyes shimmering into silver. "Ask me." He didn't like doing this, Sherlock hated it so...

"Bean-sidhe Agatha, do you wash my brother's coat tonight?" He whispered, and she tilted her head, one hand slipping to the control panel, and her window slid down the barest fraction of an inch. She breathed in, her chest swelling as the London air penetrated the car.

"Not yet," she replied, her voice slipping into the unearthly timbre that graced it when she showed her true self. "Not yet, but a hunter haunts his steps." Terror gripped his heart as easily as she grasped his neck.

"From what direction comes the hunter?"

"West," she said after another breath. "I hear the Derry reel, I smell the saxifrage."

"Him," Mycroft hissed, and she nodded, once. "But you do not see the Ford?"

"Not yet." She blinked, and her eyes became warm and brown again, her hand sliding from its place. "What would you?"

"Have Iona contact my godmother. Ensure that his pet is still in place." His hands ached where he gripped his umbrella. "If it is not, then we have an issue."

"Indeed."

"Your assistance is, as always, invaluable and deeply appreciated."

"You're welcome." She grimaced, then reached out to pat his hand -- with a warm hand of her own. She had taken the time and effort to warm herself. How kind. "You know I will do whatever I can."

"Will you wail?" He asked, gaze straight ahead, unable to look at her, to know that she lied; it would be a comforting lie, but he could not hold that in his heart, that the faerie who he knew held a dear fondness for him would lie about mourning his brother.

"By the Cauldron, Mycroft, when at last the Coach comes for your brother, you will find me gone, and at my post above the Ford, keening his loss." His head whipped rather than turned to face her; one did not swear by the Cauldron -- but a smile tugged at her lips as she nodded. "He is not mine, not in any way; but you are. And it will be a comfort to you, to know him mourned properly. So I will go."

"But not tonight," he said again, not a question, not exactly.

She shook her head, repeated her earlier words. "No; but a hunter haunts his steps."

 

 

They waited in the car a block away while the fire and emergency personnel did their work. He did not go and see Gregory, though he wanted to; he knew very well that Sherlock would deduce everything if he saw them interact, and he had no wish to play Sherlock's little game today, not now. When the last of the official cars pulled away, he texted Gregory. "Am going to see Sherlock now. Thank you for all you've done."

He was stopped, of course, by Martha, dear little murdering brownie that she was, bustling about with her apron and her cleaners. "He's upstairs, and he is in such a mood, Mr. Holmes, such a mood! Him and his lad had a bit of a domestic, you know."

"I was unaware. I hope no one was hurt? You're all right?"

"Oh, I am, but I'll have to deal with the insurance people, and I always get so flustered with insurance people after the trouble in Florida, you know," she said, finally stopping in her tracks and looking up at him pleadingly. "It would go so much better if I had a man here to deal with it all."

"I'll have my Iona come to help you," he said, patting her hand. "She's very good with paperwork, and I believe she's been saying she would very much like your recipe for lemon scones; hers, she says, always come out a bit too sweet. She prefers sweet-tart."

"Oh, that's not hard at all," Martha said, her smile, still wobbly, reappearing at last. "I'll be happy to help her, if she can help me."

"That's as it should be." Bargains between faerie blood were absolutely beyond even him, thank you. "I'll go up to see Sherlock now."

"Tell him I'll bring him some tea in a bit. Not his housekeeper, but nothing like a good cuppa to settle one after a shock."

"How very true." He dipped his head, passed on by her door and headed up the narrow stair. He did not rap his umbrella on the doorjamb, as Sherlock saw him from the other side of the living room. He held his gaze for only a moment, two, before those dark blue eyes narrowed and he whirled away to face through the ruined windows where the house opposite had been.

"No." The word was firm, the voice, as always, arrogant.

"I can promise a great deal of -- "

"No."

"A peerage, perhaps." Sherlock made a rude noise. "Brother." Sherlock snorted, but glanced again. One dark eyebrow rose. Rose higher, as did Sherlock's chin and head, tilting back as he truly took in what Mycroft was there for. The plans, yes, he needed them; but more. There was more in the way Mycroft turned, the way his elbow was crooked, everything. A small smile peeked out.

"John."

"Acceptable." Now Sherlock turned completely, head cocking the other way; John was an acceptable distraction? Mycroft lowered his gaze to the floor, then back to Sherlock, and nodded, once, barely a flicker of his head. "Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow," Sherlock agreed. "8-ish, I believe. Morning news."

"Indeed." He nodded, turned to go.

"Mycroft." He turned to see Sherlock gazing at him with an odd, almost unreadable expression. Almost. The pleading look -- at least, he could read it for what it was, most would only see Sherlock glaring -- brother, be careful, do be careful -- almost brought him to show his emotions. Instead, he only inclined his head again, and left.

 

Greg laid his head back on the couch, turning it at the sound of his own door being unlocked and opened, watched Mycroft step inside. "He's all right, the wanker," Greg said, and Mycroft snorted.

"I just came from there." He came in the rest of the way, and Greg made himself sit up, budge over so that Mycroft could sit down beside him. But he didn't, only walking around the coffee table to stand in front of him. "Gregoire, is there any possible way I could induce you to go to the Caymans early?"

"What?" Greg looked up at Mycroft, still standing beside the couch. "No, my holiday doesn't start until next Wednesday. Leaving out on a flight Tuesday night, so long as I don't catch one, possibly even if I do."

"I can arrange for your holiday to begin now. The moment you agree. I have a first class ticket to George Town downstairs in the car." Mycroft wasn't looking at him, Greg realized. He was looking through him, past him. "I can have you to Heathrow in an hour."

"You're afraid." Greg stood then, his fox growling deep in his head, hackles raised. "You're afraid, what are you afraid of?"

"I would -- I would count it as a personal favor, Gregoire --"

"No." Greg stepped right over the coffee table, knocking over a dozen papers but he didn't care, to stand before Mycroft, to gaze into those blue eyes, wavering between ice and cornflower. "You're afraid, and you want me safe, and I understand that; but Mycroft, I can't run. I can't."

"You must," Mycroft said softly. 

"The Irishman?" Mycroft said nothing, and that said it all. "More?" A slight nod. He was holding himself so rigidly, so tightly, he wasn't shaking but close. Gregory reached out, slid his arms under Mycroft's to lock his fingers in the small of the taller man's back, looking up that scant inch at him. "Mycroft. I'll be safe. I will."

"I can't --" a hitching breath, and Mycroft's voice held an odd quality, a roughness to it that wasn't usually there. "We thought. We all thought. That the -- that the Colonel was safely in my godmother's grasp. Thought she had him."

"Who's that?"

"The tiger," Mycroft whispered. "They had made a homunculus. They gave Godmother a homunculus, a flesh golem -- something -- Godmother is furious. Furious."

"It'll be all right," Greg crooned, his hands rising up his lover's back, stroking gently. "It will be all right, darlin', it'll be all right."

"The Irishman wants to play with my brother. With Sherlock." A haunted expression crossed Mycroft's face. "He's going to try to draw him in, Gregory. He's going to try to -- to twist him into what he is."

"And what's that when it's to home?"

"Sherlock claims to be a sociopath." Mycroft's tongue, just the tip, darted out and touched his upper lip. "The Prince truly is one."

"I get that."

"He is a horrible, horrible, man."

"I know."

"He's already tried once to hurt you." Mycroft reached up, taking Greg's face between his palms. "I cannot, Gregoire. I cannot put you in danger."

"He tried; I was more clever." Greg gave Mycroft a saucy grin, tried not to notice how clammy Mycroft's palms were, how sweaty.

"He'll remember that. He'll remember that, he'll want his own back, Gregory --"

"Shhh." Greg leaned forward and kissed Mycroft softly. "He'll not have me. I'll slip his snare and trip his traps. Fox, me."

"I think you should leave. I truly, truly think you should leave the country until this is over."

"No." This kiss was deeper, more possessive, hungrier. "I'll be gone soon enough. And if he comes, he comes. And I'll get away, turn round his own upon him, because I'm that good, and I have you. And Sherlock. And Donovan and my team. We'll have him, lover. We'll have him, and you can hand him off to whatever bloody black box you like, and we'll not think or speak of him again."

"I can't," Mycroft hissed, a tear slipping out of his left eye, slowly drifting down his cheek. "I can't risk both you and Sherlock, not both at once, I've -- it will be -- distraction, it's too much distraction, and I've so much other to deal with, to do, I can't focus --"

"Shhhh." Purposely, Greg leaned in, pulled Mycroft tighter, let the Omega find the spot he'd liked so well before, the hollow of Greg's collarbone. "Fox, me," he said again, softly. "I'll do all I can to stay safe, lover. That's all I can give you, because Mycroft, I can't leave you behind to face this alone."

"I won't be alone, I'll have the sisters."

"And Sherlock."

"And...and Sherlock." But his voice wavered as he said the last; he was afraid. He was truly afraid that the Prince would get hands on Sherlock, or in Sherlock, and drag him off as he'd tried to with Mycroft.

"Sherlock is well able to take care of himself, Mycroft. And he has John now, and John has his little critter, too."

"True; true."

"That pissy little djinni is not going to let its meal ticket die."

"No," Mycroft agreed. "It won't. Not if it can help it."

"Then we have to trust, lover. You have to trust me. You have to trust Sherlock and John in whatever wild hijinks they come up with. And I have to trust you, because there's more to all of this than I'm cleared for, I can tell, and I have to trust whatever John and Sherlock come up with, and only Lleu knows what your brother will do."

"You must be careful, Gregoire. You must," Mycroft said softly. "And if -- if the Prince succeeds with Sherlock..."

"He won't," Greg said firmly. "Sherlock's a wanker and an ass, but he does care about people. He does. He won't go after hurting folk just because he can."

"Of course he won't." 

"He won't," Greg repeated, hoping to help Mycroft truly believe that. "Like you said, he pretends at being a sociopath. He's not. He's not good at empathy, but he has it." Somewhat, anyway. They stood there another moment before Mycroft pulled away, straightening himself, tugging creases from his tie and suit sleeves.

"I must go. You're sure I cannot persuade you? It would be an extra full week of holiday. With pay."

"Nope. Not leavin' London so long as this goes on," Greg said, helping with Mycroft's tie, rubbing his pulse point against the fabric; hopefully the scent would help.

"Very well. I will be...mostly...unavailable by phone for the next few days. Text only."

"If you say so," Greg shrugged. "Soon, though, I'd like to take you to dinner again."

"I would enjoy that very much." He leaned in, and Greg kissed him once more, letting his passion lead. 

"Take care, lover."

"You as well, my dear." He left, and Greg felt it as magic again washed through his flat, and he watched out the window as Mycroft got into the waiting car below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: the games actually begin.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Match on.

Mycroft returned home, but he didn't even attempt to sleep, instead going over personnel files on West and the files regarding the Korean elections before Aneira came to his home office, passing through the door rather than opening it. "Agatha is hunting," she said quietly, coming to stand before his desk. "The Queen requires either Iona or myself beside you from now until the danger passes."

"What say her seers?" He asked, and Aneira shook her head, blonde hair swinging.

"Naught."

"They see nothing?"

"Too many variables. All they can confirm is that yes, it is the Prince, and yes, he does have his pet, and that both you and Sherlock are in danger."

"No word of Gregory?"

"None. My thought would be that the Prince is focused on Sherlock, and perhaps yourself."

"Let us hope he remains so." Mycroft remained where he was, pressing two fingers to his eyes before stretching out his hand. "If you wouldn't mind." Aneira nodded, gripping his hand between both of hers. Cold, such cold, enveloped him, wrapped him in frozen fingers, shocking his system, but feeding it as well, his exhaustion blown away on a blizzard's gale, replaced by an icy calm.

The Iceman blinked.

Nodded his appreciation.

Aneira left him to his work.

 

 

By dawn, he had straightened out the issues with Korea, had given firm orders to his agents in Moscow and Beijing, had called in a favor from a fellow member of the Diogenes. The Prime Minister had been informed of the gravity of the situation, and given his marching orders. His usual chauffeur was given the day off, replaced by his preferred SAS Alpha, Morrison, shape of a lion to help deal with the tiger if necessary. What he would give for one of the legedary dragon Shifters at the moment; but this wasn't a time for wishing. He left his home at precisely seven-thirty, rode quietly with Iona to Baker Street. Went upstairs, letting Iona speak with Martha; the brownie and the bean-sidhe could work out their bargain while he waited with Sherlock to begin their little farce.

Sherlock himself was awake, wrapped in his robe, his Stradivarius in hand. "I believe we've at least a few minutes," he said as Mycroft entered, and set the bow to the strings. Sherlock swung into Hungarian Dance No. 5 ...then, with a grin to match His Satanic Majesty, he whipped into The Devil's Trill, followed by Mendelssohn's Violin Sonata in E Minor. He only played for a few minutes, total, but it was enough; it was enough. He dropped onto the sofa opposite Mycroft, bringing the violin up to his chest, grin still wide and joy in his eyes, the joy of the hunt to come, the joy of the challenge, the joy of the music...he cleared his throat, blanked his face, and Mycroft heard the downstairs door rattle.

"Sherlock?"

There's the whistle. Match on.

 

"I have him." 

"No. Not yet."

"If he goes down, so falls the nation, you've said so."

"No." 

The sniper sighed, careful not to fog the glass of his scope, keeping Holmes in the crosshairs, but didn't argue further. The enchanted ring on his finger tightened, just a hair, then loosed, a reminder that the Prince was in charge of this operation and all others, that his finger belonged to the Prince, and not himself. Not anymore. If he'd had his druthers, he'd put a bullet through all three heads, and have done. But he didn't have his druthers. He was sworn.

"Pretty tiger. Not long now," the Prince whispered into his earpiece. "Soon, my lad. Soon."

"Want it," he dared whisper back, to be rewarded by a dark chuckle.

"I know. Soon."

 

Greg pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Sherlock most certainly had not taken the course. Not even a day's worth. But here sat the bloody envelope, and there was Sherlock's name, and bloody fecking hell but he had to call the arrogant wanker in. He had to. He didn't want to, especially after the convo he'd had with Mycroft last night, but he had to. He got up, went to the door of his office, crooked a finger, and Donovan came, closing the door behind her. "It's bad," she said without preamble. "How bad?"

"Sherlock," he sighed. "It's addressed to him." Sally frowned, but nodded. "Whoever did the explosion, they want him in. They want him in hard."

"If we have to, Guv, we have to," Sally said after a moment. "It's gonna be bad, innit?" Greg frowned, but nodded.

"I think so, aye. That building was blown to shite, and this was left, purpose, in a box they knew would survive the blast. They want him, and they like makin' things go boom, Sal." Sally's hand crept up to her pendant -- Michael the Archangel, protector of cops and firemen -- but she nodded again.

"They're gonna blow something else."

"Got to figure. Yeah." And this was absolutely the last thing he wanted to do the week before he hit rut, he was already on edge. 

"Then call him," she said simply. "We'll put up with his arse. It'll blow," she snickered at her own dark humor, "but we'll do it."

"I know. I appreciate it, Sal. You know that. And I need summat else from you." Greg swallowed. "You know how close I am."

"So does everyone in the office -- oh." Sally nodded, understanding dawning in her eyes. "You think you might punch him, then?"

"If he gets to be too much of an arse? Possibly. I'll take half a tab of Pax, but in the heat of the moment..." he shrugged, and Sally sighed.

"I'll do my best, but my hand might slip," she grinned at him. "Go on. Call him."

 

"You can't trace it." A few hours later, Greg stood beside the digital team, boffins all bent over their screens. Dixon, their D.I., shook his head.

"S just no way. Whoever's makin' that call, see," he pointed to his own screen, and Greg bent to see lines criss-crossing a map of the world, all linking back to London. "They're routing the signal...everywhere. Out of everywhere, and they've got multiple clone signals going to throw us off. We have to sift through the clones, and there's dozens, narrow them down to find the original signal, which is the one being rerouted; the rest are following. Even then, it's just -- we're looking at at least twelve hours. And that's the absolute best I can give you."

"We don't have twelve hours. Poor girl has six. At best."

"I know," Dixon growled. "I bloody know, but these bastards are better. They just are, Greg, nothing I can do about it. Even if I had the best equipment, hell, I'd bet MI6 and 5 would have issues with this. Fucking -- think Anonymous, aye? You know who they are." At Greg's nod, he tapped his screen. "Right. What you don't know is that a lot of the other hacker groups look at Anonymous and pat their wee heads, they're such cute pups. This? This was done by someone who would pat those groups on the head and offer them a bikky. I've called a friend who used to be MI6, he's on his way, but.." Dixon shrugged. "Nothing we can do but the work, Greg."

"Right. Right." Greg swallowed his irritation, tried to tamp it down. "Well, keep on. We don't think this will be the last, so just keep on."

"You don't -- fuck me," Dixon sighed. "Any idea how many?"

"Four. At least four. Maybe more. Just..." he glanced at the screen beside him, full of code and symbols he didn't understand, couldn't understand. "Just keep on it."

"We will." Dixon nodded solemnly, and Greg left the digi-team's bullpen.

 

The next few days were a blur of action, waiting, bad coffee, catnaps in his office, more action, desperate pleading with any god that would listen to help Sherlock pass the tests, find the answers, save the people. Losing the blind woman hurt, god but it hurt, but she'd been brave; oh, she'd been a brave lass, and Greg made sure to send word up the pipe that NSY should make an appearance. He didn't have either the time or the inclination to call Mycroft, much less text him. And then the kid, oh God, the kid, it broke something in Greg to know that this bastard, this horrible excuse for even a faerie, sure, the royal faeries didn't have much use for humans, but they weren't usually cruel with children, because..because children.

And the bastard. This bastard, this horrible, horrible cluster of cells and claptrap, he wasn't -- Greg breathed through it, somehow, just kept breathing through it, gobbling a full tab of Pax every six hours rather than a half, because the half wasn't enough, it wasn't. He'd have stepped up to a tab and a half if he could, but he was afraid that would be too much. He had to keep up with the madmen on his side, after all. And it was all a clusterfuck, it was all such an actual goddamn clusterfuck. First the lad from Sherlock's childhood, then the insurance scam, the beauty queen...the little man. Oh, the little lad. The brave, brave lad, he was so brave, so good.

But it wasn't over, was it? No. Greg wasn't the genius Sherlock was, wasn't half a tack on Mycroft, but he could count, and had done. Five. Five pips. And there had been four bombs. There was one yet to go, and Dixon and his crew still sorting through the clones and all, so instead of sending his team home, Greg begged, cajoled, bribed, them into staying close. Take a nap here and there, you deserve it, get the rest you can, because it's not over. I know it's not over, I need you. I need every last man jack of you, stay with me. Just another twenty-four.

He was napping at his desk when his phone went off under his crossed arms. He blinked himself awake, looked down. An address. Sherlock. Sherlock, you bloody wanker. He was up and shouting before he thought, acting on pure instinct, downstairs and in the car within two minutes, Sally shoving her foot down and keeping it there, and the bloody thing went off, went up, fuck's sake, they heard it from two blocks away, and he fucking swore, clinging to the dash and car door with half-Shifted hands and claws, screaming the idjits' names as Sally cursed and somehow made the car go even faster, taking the corner on two wheels and blind faith.

He jerked the door open, leaving claw marks on the upholstery, Shifting into his fox and dashing into the building as soon as Sally stopped the car. He heard her behind him, the big boxer's paws hitting the ground as fast as his, both Shapes leaping over still smouldering piles of rubble and through the blown open doors. Sirens blared both behind them and in the building itself, fire alarms, their throats full of smoke and fear as they both barked, the noises echoing around the tile walls and bouncing back at them. The door leading to the pool was blocked by a fallen girder, and Greg came up out of his fox with a roar, getting underneath the fucking thing and shoving it to the side, the adrenaline pounding through his body as he ripped the door open, letting Sally in before dropping back into Shape and dashing on into the poolroom, nostrils full of chlorine and smoke.

The boar stood guard over the fallen man, lowered its head as the two Yarders approached, snorted a warning. Both Greg and Sally came up out of Shape now. "John," Greg said, staying low, coughing and clearing his throat before he tried again. "John, it's me. It's Greg and Sally from the Yard, John." Shadows rippled over the boar, but Greg saw the little critter on the boar's back, saw it lean forward toward the boar's ears. A second later, John was kneeling beside Sherlock, ripping off his sweater and wrapping it around the man's head. 

"Get me a med kit," John shouted. "Get me a goddamn med kit, he's --"

"Better, let's get him out of here," Greg said as he and Sally approached. "We don't know if there's structural damage, John, let's go, let's go!" He slid his arms under Sherlock, picked him up easily as Sally helped John to his feet, the three of them moving quickly out into the hallway, meeting firemen there, piled out of their way, kept moving, kept inching toward the exit, on past them and outside, into the cold London air. It was welcome, after the smoke filled clog that had been inside the pool building. Greg carried Sherlock, and Sally dragged John, to the ambulance that had pulled up. In its lights, Greg could see the sleeve of the sweater John had wrapped around Sherlock's head was oatmeal colored, but the body of it now was russet, darkened with blood. And John had wounds, too, he noticed as the med techs took the lads from them, half a dozen cuts on his face, his arm hung funny, his trousers leg was dark with blood.

A few more med techs swarmed around he and Sally, offering them oxygen, which he took for a few minutes before pulling off the mask and begging a bottle of water and holding Sally's hand, instead, as she took in more. She needed more; the boxer stood taller than the fox, and had breathed more smoke. "You ran in there after Sherlock bloody Holmes," he teased her, and she rolled her eyes, pointed to him. "Oh, you ran in after me, that's it, is it?" She nodded firmly, pulled the mask off for a second.

"You're the bloody fool what ran for Sherlock," she said, her voice raspy, and he shoved the mask back on her face.

"Gregory?" He turned to see Mycroft approaching at a clip, a woman he didn't recognize behind him in Anthea's usual place. Mycroft's face, his voice, full of worry and care as he came up, grasped his arm tightly with his free hand, his eyes running all up and down him, his scent, too, full of worry and care, and he had to shove down his instinct, hard, Alpha instinct to get the Omega, his Omega, away from this place of danger.

"Mycroft." He cut his eyes toward the ambulance where Sherlock lay. He didn't think Mycroft had told his brother that they were seeing one another, not yet, but he could see John looking at the pair of them, winked, and to his delight, John winked back, nodded firmly. Ay, there's a mate.

"You're all right?" Mycroft asked, then repeated. "You're all right. Smoke inhalation, of course, and you likely strained something, I'm not sure what, but your arm is shaking."

"M fine," Greg said, knocking back the rest of the water bottle. He was parched yet, but it was what he had. "Himself?" He arched an eyebrow.

"Gone." Mycroft's face scrunched into a scowl. "Most likely some form of portal; there were three spikes of magical energy in this location, then -- then I was informed as to the situation at this location. We came as quickly as possible." He gestured, and the strange woman came forward. "I am going to ride with Sherlock to hospital. When the bomb squad clears the area, go in and see what you can find."

"Yes, sir." Her voice was lighter than Anthea's, but just as clipped and firm as she was when she was on duty.

"That's not Anthea," Greg said as she stepped away.

"No; for some reason, Aneira wished to appear as herself, rather than in the usual guise," Mycroft sighed. His grip on Greg loosed. "I must go and take the report from the medics."

"Do that. I'll be at home tonight, I think." He tried winking, was unsurprised when Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"I will be in touch later." He took a step, stopped, turned back around and ran his fingers over Greg's cheek. "Perhaps you'd care to come to mine this evening?"

"Might be better," Greg agreed. "Call me, do."

"I shall. Stay safe, Gregory." Then he was off, and just in time; his brother was just stirring about. Greg sat back down, taking Sally's hand again. She raised both her eyebrows at him, unable to speak due to the oxygen mask.

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "I'm a nutter." Sally only nodded, eyes wide. "He's sweet, Sal. Darlin', even." Sally didn't take the mask off, but pulled it away from her mouth a fraction.

"Didn't know you were gay."

"M not. Bi."

"N you're into that?"

"Yes. Problem?" Sally shook her head. "He's good. He's good for me."

This time, she did pull off the mask. "Not as big an ass as Sherlock?"

"Nowhere near. Now slap that thing back on your face and hush, my gel." Greg patted her hand again, stood back up. "I'm going to go check on John." Sally nodded, wide eyed, grabbed Greg's hand and pulled him down.

"I'm sorry. Tell him I'm sorry."

"What did you do, Sal?" Greg asked, sighing, and she shook her head, pressing the mask back to her face. "I'll tell him." He walked over, thankful that John was a good patient, and the other med techs had moved on to try to get Sherlock under control, who was driving his round the bend, despite Mycroft's calm and controlled demeanor trying to get him to calm down. "Hey there." The little critter peeked out from behind John's leg. "And hey to you."

"Mehrang likes you," John said quietly, looking round before he leaned back, pulled a pair of water bottles from in the ambulance, handed one to Greg. "He told me. Told me it was you. Really you."

"What happened?" Greg took the bottle, cracked it open, drank, but listened. John sighed, shook his head.

"I was headed to Sarah's. Thought I was gonna get a leg over, finally. I'm two blocks from hers, and I'd left Sherlock back at Baker Street, and suddenly I see Mrs. Hudson walking down the lane, I said, Mrs. Hudson, what are you doing over here?"

"Wasn't her?" John snorted, drank from his own bottle.

"No. Not even." He closed his eyes, leaned back. "Blond and blue, about two meters, maybe a bit taller. Illusion disappeared, I saw him, took a step back, and something -- I don't know whether it was magic or material, and then I woke up in the locker room there. Wrapped up tight in a vest of Semtex, and they'd done something, I don't know what, to Mehrang, he was cursing them up one side and down the other. Mostly masked, black tactical gear, ex-military for the most part, or seemed like it." He paused, drank again.

"Did you see him? The Prince?"

"If you mean Jim from bloody IT, then yeah," John snarled, and a cold chill went down Greg's back.

"Jim from IT?"

"Yeah. Molly --"

"Oh, fuck, he fucked with Molly?" Greg couldn't help the way his voice rose, he really couldn't. 

"Fucked with her head. Tried to get a leg up on Sherlock, I gave you my number, bastard. Bastard." John shook his head. "When the hell is Mike going to make his move?"

"Soon, I hope, fucking desperately now," Greg snapped back. "God, poor Molls."

"Yeah," John sighed, energy seemingly draining from him all at once. "Anyway. They shove an earpiece in my ear, I go up the steps, out the door, say what they tell me to say. Jim comes swanning in, runs his mouth, I tried to move on him, it didn't work -- it was a mess, Greg. Just a great bloody mess. And then we think, we think, we're going to get on, we think we're good, we're leaving, fuck all this -- and there's sniper dots on us, both of us, half a dozen apiece at least. And Sherlock shot the explosive. And things went dark for me for a few minutes. I must have gone instinct as I woke up, because I don't remember anything real until you and Sal showed."

"Sally says she's sorry, by the way."

"Yeah." John sighed again, looked up at the night. "She can tell me herself in a week or two, I guess. Surely to God he'll slow down a week or two."

"Sorry, have you met your flatmate?" Both men snickered at that as the other ambulance closed up, and the medics came back over.

"Doctor Watson, are you ready to go, then?" One asked, and John sighed once more.

"Do I have to?"

"Head injury," the medic said apologetically. "At least four hours observation, you know the procedure, Doctor."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean a man can't hope to sleep in his own bed." John clapped Greg on the shoulder. "Tomorrow, right?"

"Yep. I'll come get your statement again tomorrow, yours and his both," Greg agreed. "Go on with you now." He stepped away, back, watched both ambos pull away. The third one was getting Sal's mask and tank off, getting ready to roll out themselves. "You ready then?"

"God, so ready," Sal sighed. "We going back to the office, then?"

"Nah. Home for both of us," Greg said. "Can't write up a report until we get bomb squad and fire's reports, can't get Sherlock's statement until tomorrow, got one from John but I want to ask him again tomorrow."

"Yeah." Sally pushed herself up, thanked the medics, and the two crossed the street to where she'd parked the car. "You told him?"

"He said you can tell him yourself soon enough." He gave her a look. "You need to do that for yourself, you know."

"I will," she sighed. "I will."

"I'm not being ugly, luv."

"I know," Sally sighed. "I'll drop you first?"

"Yeah. Wait a minute while I clear it."

"Oh, I'm going up with you," Sally said. "We'll both clear it." She cut a glance toward Greg as he fastened his safety harness. "Why are we clearing it, exactly?"

"Reasons," Greg said. "They used illusion on John. They've used -- they broke into mine last week. Wearing Mycroft's face."

"Fuck, guv!"

"Yeah. So we'll clear it."

"Right."

He was home and in bed within the hour, asleep not long after sending Mycroft a good night text.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Great Game is over now, thankfully.
> 
> I am switching Hound and Belgravia. I have my reasons, and you will see them when I write it.
> 
> Next update sometime this week, but I can't make any promises as to what day.

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Isn't this interesting?  
> Comments and kudos are appreciated.


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